37 Fans
Thirty seven creatures tip-tapped on the fabric of my tent and thought hmmm…you’re tasty. The cloud of my breath drew them in like smoke from a grill. They waited for an opening.
Under other circumstances, I’d be flattered to be the muse for a symphony.
But we were in the kind of place where the buzz didn’t go away even with movement. The mosquitoes numbered fewer while keeping a steady walking clip along the trail, but the ghost of that noise lingered.
That inner ear vibration could be a healing soundbath. But instead, it’s flying itchy bites waiting for you to stay still for just long enough.
It’s nice to be wanted. Not nice to be left with a parting gift only healed with cortisone and time.
I’d rather be noticed with less itching, less whining.
I’d rather be the one doing the noticing. I still did but mostly while in motion. Mostly in those sneaky glances up from the trail surface – just enough time to prevent a rolled ankle, just enough to know how spectacular the landscape could be. Just enough to unwrap the Clif bar and walk, nibble, glance, swat, and keep moving through the crowd of thirsty, buzzy, alpine mosquitoes.
