all is dead
but for the mosquitoes
singing
their blood song

they had merely acquired
a shared affection for funerals
the way some people
love public holidays:

Fair insect! that, with threadlike legs spread out, And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, And tell how little our large veins would bleed, Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.

Man, they got mosquitoes 'round this place big enough to rape a chicken.

They're bloodsucking mosquitoes. You just can't get them all.

There are as many festivals as there are mosquitoes after a rain.