Last night I smashed a mosquito

Splattered it flat on the wall,

The Book Review paid it finito:

The last dead mosquito of Fall.


My eye was precise, my nerves steely,

But here was a troubling thing:

Could it instead have been, really,

The first-hatched mosquito of Spring?


The night-siren sound of its buzzing

Was giving me all kinds of reasons

To worry that mankind is fuzzing

The normal progression of seasons.


I lay awake scratching my cranium

Listening to Limbaugh and Beck.

Why is there still a geranium

In the window box out on the deck?


The fall of each insect or sparrow

Like the sea creeping up on Cape Cod

Chills me right down to the marrow

It’s a signal that comes straight from God.


But waking this morning, the arras

Was pulled back, and lo and behold,

They brokered a treaty in Paris:

I’m hoping the future is cold.