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.

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