In the Ink (Mosquito) Jungle
Indian Ink lines trailing down, down
just like the sweat trails down, down
into my eyes,
making them burn and smart.
It's either hot or cold, black or white,
there are no inter-mediates of grey or
except maybe ice- cream, as we sit on the dock in the bay,
watching the beavers working away,
building the world's longest dam.
But no, wait, those are our beavers from
little old Fox Lake, swimming, swimming,
dragging twigs with yummy leaflets still growing.
And then there's the humming, humming,
of miniature helicopters, droning, droning,
forever sipping, sipping
from the humming bird feeder.
It's not too hot for them, just thirsty work,
wings beating, beating,
The no-see-ums and horseflies have also arrived,
just as soon as we did, or
maybe before us, ancient inhabitants, indigenous life forms,
happy to smell us again,
and feasting, feasting
bloodsuckers all of them,
just miniature vampires, living forever on our
But we're still
covered in SWOLLEN red,
reduced to being,
the nervous, scratching, ITCHY,
of the insatiable forest
What if I suffer a mutation
from the stinger of the mosquito,
exchanging DNA fragments,
morphing into something
Half human, and half insect,
Becoming blood-thirsty, insatiable for
instead of sipping this lovely lemon iced tea?
on my chair
watching for the birds and their lovely
recurring calling, sounds of nature repeating, repeating.
It's a HOLY day of nature,
having sacrificially, exchanged blood, and stinger serum
with the insects,
given them a donation of human sustenance,
so that they may successfully reproduce
and further their species.
From the wilds of Haliburton,
where we voluntarily go,
to celebrate our Queen's birthday.
Hooray for the uplifted,
swatted and reviled,
Writing by Regina Stemberger