I barely smell the burlap smoke anymore, but I remember that it used to burn my throat and water my eyes. I blow into the tin fume-canister until a little flame leaps up then I slap the top closed and squelch the heat. I want the smoke, not the fire. Approximately a thousand honeybees swarm around the two white boxes I’ve placed at the edge of Old Man Orchard. I should camouflage them or put them a little deeper into the woods, but the hives need sunlight if I want the bees to survive the long winters, so it’s a tradeoff I guess.