In the late evening they take flight.
Wings silvered with the dew of a midmorning past, shimmering with the faint memory of an infinitely still river.
In the purpled sky, spread as pixies flitting around Eliot’s patient.
Carrying with them the memory of history. Of prehistory. Of rainforests and ponds, of the life giving heat of the world.
They ride the humidity cleanly – single minded pilots, overwhelmed with the perception of a world so much larger than them.
Eyes that see time flow with the stillness of each wingbeat, each their own torrent of rushing air as the life giving sun cedes the stage to her gentle brother, leaving us with a defiant, etherising glow.
Through monolithic pantheons of stone and steel, mired with small scars of greenery that to each is in itself a forest, though it is but a child compared to the forests of ages past.
They approach.
And then they fucking bite me.
God I hate mosquitoes.
