The air clings to my skin, as if I could reach up
and wring it out like a wet towel.

The steady drone of mosquitos, flashes of flitting bodies in my periphery
remind me of my negligence,
Because I can't really blame them
for being attracted to standing water.

They're only trying to reproduce, to give their offspring a chance at experiencing the world.
A place where their eggs won't be washed away downstream
We regard them as vermin, but really, we all burn down to the same things.
A gnawing hunger for survival, a bit of charred carbon.
Maybe stardust, if you believe in that.
A condensation of refracted nebulae.

After all, the infestation is your own fault.
When your water has nowhere to drain, can you fault it for stagnating?
When a mother's wings tire, can you fault her for coming to rest?
Why let the water still if you don't welcome mosquitos?

I almost toe the line of sympathy before snuffing it out with one swift motion,
Ending the thought in a spatter of old blood,
A torn wing smeared across the back of my calf.