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.