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.

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