I admit it. I find mucking to be a near inspirational time; I simply do my best thinking while holding that fork. Today I was pondering a fairly gut-wrenching blog topic that has been haunting me, but it’s late August and there was an audible fly buzz that’s more than distracting- it’s nearly debilitating. When I looked at the muck cart it was covered with hundreds of their dark little bodies. Why am I giving them a kiddie ride?
The fly population in the house is less but this week we reached some quantum point where there were more flies in the vacuum cleaner than dog hair. Wow. The fall sport is in full swing- a fly swatter in every room. I have a good overhead slam and my back hand is improving.
August is that time when flies hear the clock ticking. The nights are cooler and they know time is short. Even the most conservative, shy, peace-loving flies turn into head-banging freaks, screech-buzzing something about sex and drugs and rock n’ roll- totally out of control.
Natural horsemanship doesn’t work on flies in this mood.
Fly spray doesn’t work either. It has been awhile since those flowery herbal sprays have worked but by late August even the most noxious spray just makes flies mad. The more you put on your horse, the harder the flies bite- but at least the horses have an oily, toxic residue on their hair and skin.
It has been weeks since I have seen the eyes behind those fly masks.
I’m waging a natural war against the flies by using fly predators. I visualize them looking like B-movie mercenaries with chiseled biceps, wearing camo and being airdropped into enemy territory with all kinds of macho weapons. To tell the truth, the last bunch of commando predators that I released behind the barn looked tiny and scared.
I may be a bleeding-heart animal lover, but when it comes to flies, warn PETA about me.
I am sorry it has come to this, but I feel forced to resort to poetry. Spirit, Infinity Farm’s senior statesman, would like to share a poem he has composed entitled Ode to the Fly.
Away from my eye.
The first frost in on the way and soon the cool air will be free of this constant buzz. We will dance to the demise of flies, and begin to whine about the cold. When we see the first flies next year, it will be a sure sign of spring.
I should wax philosophical about it, but this buzzing is driving me nuts.
Anna, Infinity Farm.
2 thoughts on “Ode to the Fly.”
I’d like to add my own favorite fly poem, from Ogden Nash:
God in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why
And I would add:
King of hot barnyard days,
they laugh. I swat.
Great post, Anna!