This summer has been notable for its bonanza of bugs. Here in New Brunswick I’ve seen luna moths, the size of large cats, swoop down and steal young children from their strollers as if skilled shortstops shagging ground balls. Mothers, horrified, watch helplessly because they were enshrouded by clusters of mosquitos biting and buzzing until their victims fell, scratching insatiably, itched to madness.
As if drunken loggers made rowdy by spring, June bugs have crashed and banged and buzzed kamikaze-like into walls and doors and slow-moving homeowners, their racket like stones hailing from the heavens, their deaths beyond numbers and reason.
Grown men have wept seeing their homes fall to dust, the targets of the hunger of gluttonous ants. Spiders, large as wading pools, goose-stepped with unyielding resolve on picnicking families, veiling them in webs, hoisting their prey above to hang as signals to others, and as readily accessible munchies.
Languid earwigs have scaled the elderly hedonistically, the old defenseless and unable to flee them for their tired limbs were too aged and covered by pinching, wiggly things.
Like a storm crazed sea, the waves of insects have been relentless this summer, their lust for dominance fueled by the interminable rain. And we, the improbable bipeds, can only scratch and swat and dream uselessly of deserts.
As it has always been and always shall be: the insects win, the insects win.
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