snow

on coexisting in chilly times

The last insect of summer visited me tonight, coming close again and again to skin of face and hands and arms, in pursuit of tiny hoped-for sips of my warm blood in these 32F-and-headed-for-25-or-fewer degrees: a mosquito the size of a middling housefly flirts with ending its own life sooner, if that’s what it takes to have one last drink.

Little does s/he know that the one around whom s/he hovers tonight? Is sufficiently chilly herself and perfectly willing–even happy–to provide that last libation and not ask for a life in return. Should such a grace be offered, that is.