Today I unleashed the fury of hell in one of my hives by messing with the queen and received a sweet little sting on the palm of my hand. Until the barb is removed, the venom keeps pumping and the hot pain increases. So naturally I left it in to get a good picture.
My fear of being stung on the hand and dropping a frame is diminishing because I am learning to interpret the language of a bee about to sting. Her buzzing rises to a higher pitch…her body vibrates with more intensity…she crouches down slightly…and there it is.
Punish me, little bees. I deserve it.
If the sun is shining just right, and the smell of the hive is just right, and my level of naughtiness is just right, my hive tool will scrape wax off the frame a bit lower than it should. Cells are opened and warm honey runs swiftly down my tool and my fingers (if I’m lucky). The cruel irony is that my veil prevents me from tasting it as it runs to the ground. I am left to move about my work completely unsatisfied.
Poor girls, you worked so hard to cure and safely store this treasure to feed your colony, only to have it ripped open and gazed upon by a human with lusty eyes.
Tease me, little bees. I deserve it.
(This one is for you, John L. Thanks for the encouragement!)