Bug time:

The sun is flirting

with the edge of the mountain

and the heat is leeching

out of the day.

Insects, paralyzed

by the August brilliance,

begin to rise from their shelters,

bobbing in the evening air

like dust motes

caught in the shaft

of light from a crack

in the window blinds.

Encouraged by the

anticipation of twilight

they weave aimless patterns

stretching from me

to the sun’s blinding disk.

Bug time:

Taking one last

run at the lawn before the

season comes to an end,

I am surrounded by

swarms of nesting mites

and midges,

rising up to flee the

whirring blades.

Do they merely fly from danger

or cluster round my head

in search of one last feast

before the summer’s gone?

I am trapped.

I have begun something I

must see through for the

sake of the lawn.

Caribou go mad under

such provocation, but

I can only try to mow faster,

hoping to outrun them as

they rise from under foot.

Bug time:

It’s Terry Fox day. The

school is out to march and

run the length of our dyke.

No fear of students standing still

as the swarm rises from the

brush to follow.

Those at the starting and

finishing lines must bear the

attention of those

little black flies, eager to sample

a gross of student bodies

but more content to

buzz in the faces of those

who only stand and wait.

Bug time:

Walking and talking

out of doors becomes a

gastronomic adventure.

Our desperate, tiny companions

have no sense of self-

preservation at all,

and blithely fly into our

open mouths.

Nothing worse than a dry fly

stuck halfway.