Late Spring is War

Outside my office, a battle scene, and I'm behind enemy lines. Cottonwood paratroopers float aimlessly in an ongoing assault on sinuses, their smashed bodies mashed into the doormat and cling to the rough cedar siding. A white line of insecticide rings the base of our building, keeping the carpenter ants at bay for now. The line is punctuated with spots where the exterminator shook the can, creating miniature bursts like the carbon scars of exploded bombs. A few junebugs have died, their carcasses abandoned tanks on the front lines, but the cool weather has kept most of them alive thus far. The box-elder bugs of late summer have yet to begin their attack.

There is grass in the air as well, decapitated green bits shoaled up in waves in the parking lot, unswept-up by the Groundskeeper Willies (or, more likely, Juans) yesterday. And a few yards away, traffic continues its endless barrage on the pavement and my ears. I open the door, slip back to safety, climb the stairs and enter the climate-controlled office.