...

We used to call this 'indian summer' for the sole reason that, to us, warmth was savage. The easy gift of a warm October felt forbidden, stolen, disallowed by the Puritans plodding through the pews.

From where I sit observing the flies and the wasps and the ladybugs, warmth is a social event. Sun on wood means swarm. I don't believe they have an understanding of where they are in a year. It's only tonight's temperature that will inform them if their nest building is in vain or not. 'Vanity' doesn't seem to apply to small winged creatures on this planet. "In vein" works better—meaning whether their industrious building happens inside the flow of seasonal happenings, tilting planets, or if it happens outside the vein, if their efforts pool like the spilled blood they don't have. Their blood is light and wing. Their seasons are stop, go, light, dark. They move through one thousand cycles everyday. To a fly, life is long. One eye for every minute.