And now, a poem . . . about MOSQUITOES!

I thought of this while I was driving to school today. My son, riding shotgun, refused to let me go further than the first two or three lines. The darned thing has been lurking in the back of my head all day, though. So here it is, just for you.

Where Do All of the Mosquitoes Go?

Where do all of the mosquitoes go

When the earth is frozen under mounds of snow?

Their high-pitched song and piercing whine

Silenced by the cold of winter time.

Do they sleep beneath blankets of white?

Or are tiny corpses all that remains of their fight?

While their eggs, suspended, wait for spring

Near the pools of standing water that melt will bring?

It’s only the females that bite and suck blood

Driven to nourish their coming brood.

Mother’s instinct winning over manners kind

(If insects had rules of etiquette to mind . . .)

Where do all of the mosquitoes go

When the frost descends and north winds blow?

Minuscule ethereal tormentors of the skin

At end of summer meet their reckoning

Flying slowly, lazily, to peaceful destruction

Seems unfair, having survived elimination

Should we envy the lives of these summer creatures

Spared having to endure winter’s features?

Fairy-like structures able to cause such pain

Thriving in humidity, heat, and rain

Irritating with attacks by proboscis

Still, mosquitoes have their uses.

Where do all the mosquitoes go?

Do the crows and ravens miss their flow?

Crunchy snacks for wily fowl and fish

Beware, mosquito, if you’re not quick!

Evening walks are far more pleasant

When you’re not racing their annoying chant

And why do they aim for ears and nose?

If it’s blood you want, don’t head for those!

What’s the point of targeting orifices

When it’s flesh that has the tastiest pieces?

I don’t miss your high-pitched hum

When icicles hang and I freeze my bum

I’d rather pile on layers of sweaters and socks

Tingling fingertips and toes numb as rocks

Than endure itchy bumps and calamine lotion

Bleeding and scabbing from mosquito devotion!

Where do all the mosquitoes go?

Wish they didn’t come back at all, you know.

But a world without them would suffer more

Hard to remember, must not ignore.

I’ll enjoy the mosquito-less months while they last

And kill them on sight when winter has passed

For they’re neither endangered nor hard to locate

— impossible to escape when they think I taste great —

And they flock out en masse when the sun starts to set

Settling on my skin as though I were their pet!

They bite me through jeans! Wiggle into my hair!

In unending numbers they seek me everywhere!

Miniature vampires, blood-sucking pests

Beloved by baby birds being fed in their nests

But not by me, and my obsession should stop

Since it’s winter, and “skeeters” there are not

But I have to wonder, and ponder, this January day,

When in four months or so the bugs come back to play,

As much as I hate those damnable insects,

Where did they come from? I have to respect

For even though I loathe and despise their very being

At least their presence indicates the cold’s ending.

–Tori L. Ridgewood, 1/13/15

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