After having one honeydrop too many, which is never advisable, Mr. Cinnamon-Chested Bee-Eater fluffed his chest, and trilled a promise to his ladylove. ‘A special treat for my precious at the crack of dawn, eh.’ Hasty? Undoubtedly. Wild oath? Not really. He had been eyeing a particularly juicy worm at the foot of their tree house. It’d make a difference from chasing those pesky bees for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Mr. Bee-Eater had been intently observing the wriggly fellow doing calisthenics early in the morning for the last couple of days. ‘That ain’t going to do you much good, my slimy bro. You’re just gonna die healthy.’ But then next morning, as the sky started to blush a deep pink, he decided, admittedly a bit rashly, to hit the snooze button. The slowest of birdbrain could figure out what happened next. That blasted sun-salutin’ break-dancin' worm had got airlifted by an eager pair of beaks. Not his, of course. And now Mrs. Bee-Eater’s feathers are seriously ruffled. Time to go after some honeybees again. The morning is turning out to be a real buzzkill. Damn. Damn. Damn.