BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees BEES bees
[exits my mobile treehouse, rifle in hand, binoculars pressed against my eyes]
[my dog barks steadily and i look out into the distance]
[there, 2.6 miles out, is a squadron of bees, steadily approaching my forestral abode]
âwind 8 degrees SW, adjust three leftâ says my trusty dog spotter
âroger thatâ i respond, trusting his judgment
I take my rifle to my shoulder and peer down the scope. the haze is thick with air and dust and coconuts. my forehead begins to sweat. my palms are not sweating though, theyâre good.
âtake it slowâ says ruffers, nodding at me in reassurement
âslow is fast and fast is slowâ i respond, thinking back to my training and earnestly tracking my targetâs approach. âhumidity?â
âitâs hot out here,â barks ruffers, as his tail begins to wag. i glance at him quickly and he abruptly stops, remembering any motion on our treehouse deck might throw off my aim.
i slowly take in a breath and then release it, firing my round downrange. thirteen seconds passâŠ. a tense silence fills the air. im still tracking them in my scope. then suddenly boom! one goes down!
âhow many more of em, ruffers?â
âthis is horribly inefficientâ
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