Sometimes I like to catch the mosquitos that hum about my room, sending radio signals to headquarters,
One handed, ****** them out of their whining arrogance,
Squish.
Sometimes when I open my hand again, to bask in my tactical victory, or find out it slipped between my fingers, it rises slowly out of the fist, and into the night, alive.
Pride. I caught it.
Frustration. It got away.
Awe. It survived.