June 9, 2014.   Beaver Island

I have changed my strategy for dealing with these bugs. Mosquitos, that is. The Fell Winter of 2014 has produced a plethora of them. Clouds of Mosquitos. Hungry hordes. An unending renewable resource. A plague.
I have renounced defensive measures. I sit in the yard in shorts, legs unanointed with DEET and gleaming white in the bright sun. The legs are intended as bait, daring the bugs to attack. And so they do, coming in flights, echelons, squadrons, and pairs. They land on my legs and I smash them with calculated blows. I snatch them in mid-air, sometimes several at once. I stomp them with my feet. I clap my hands together in a murderous vice, mutilating many. I leave the smashed carcasses on my blood-smeared legs as further enticement to their kin. Every so often there is a lull, as if word were being sent to mosquito headquarters that reinforcements were needed, and then the horde descends again with redoubled strength.
Is this war a metaphor for life in the world? How can they sustain themselves in such excessive numbers? There are not enough warm blooded creatures on this island to feed a tenth of them. Such excess in nature is, I believe, a prelude to a catastrophic crash. Or is that only true of "desirable" species, like Ruffed Grouse?Are these voracious creatures the messengers of a planet that has lost its patience with the human race?
It is clear that, in a war of this kind, I will lose. Such bellicosity cannot be sustained for long. An accommodation must be found. Reconciliation must eventually occur, or all must perish. That is true of all wars.
Man, are we in trouble. "Only a power greater than ourselves..."