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]
“wind 8 degrees SW, adjust three left” says my trusty dog spotter
“roger that” 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, they’re good.
“take it slow” says ruffers, nodding at me in reassurement
“slow is fast and fast is slow” i respond, thinking back to my training and earnestly tracking my target’s approach. “humidity?”
“it’s hot out here,” 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 pass…. a tense silence fills the air. im still tracking them in my scope. then suddenly boom! one goes down!
“how many more of em, ruffers?”
“this is horribly inefficient”
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