June’s magical fireflies blink “love me, love me.” Disappearing sparks.

Late July’s crickets’ chorus a shimmery soundtrack for evenings on the porch. 

By the time I hear mosquitoes’ whining buzz, I’m in trouble and smack my neck. My hand comes back with blotched with blood. Maybe mine. 

Cicadas drone in August, their whining dirge signals summer will end soon.

Late summer’s bees and wasps circle and sortie – dive bombing my plate, glass, head. Pulleeze, there’s nothing to pollinate here.

Overnight September’s spiders spin outrageous webs from patio chair to table, geometry personified, ambitious beyond all reason.