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!)
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