Jumbo Flies

Compared to a tiny tiny fruitfly
That we barely see,
A bluebottle blowfly is a shiny guy,
At half-a-bee.
He must be big, because
He is born to make a buzz –
To-and-fro, darting, wheeling,
Watch him go.
Small enough to hang-out on the ceiling,
Yet large enough to bounce against the window.
My my,
What a fly !
What a glow !

Compared to a tiny wee mosquito
That we only hear,
A cranefly is as silent as it’s slow,
And nowt to fear !
Their leatherjackets may
Be skeeter-eaters in their day,
But there’s no meat on the menu
Once they grow.
And how they grow !, these slender-friends,
These stilted-striders, palm-wide gliders,
Gone in just a mo.
My my,
What a fly !
Magico !

Compared to a tiny tiny dancing gnat
Within a cloud,
A robberfly is big and fat,
And ludicrously loud !
Aerial assaulters,
Whose cheerleader-halters –
Beat like a motorbike
Or dynamo.
With mouth-pike and bug-eye –
Each giant part in all its art is big enough to spy –
And what a show !
My my,
What a fly !
Now you know.

There are plenty of people that will tell you that crane flies are not mosquitos and they do not eat mosquitos. They are wrong on both counts (for a given value of mosquito – they are certainly more closely related to each other than either is to a housefly, but they still went their separate ways way back in the Jurassic.)

Most adult crane flies have no mouthparts at all, and their larvas are mostly vegetarian. However, with over 15 thousand species, there are always a few edge cases where the leatherjackets do sometimes eat those fidgety question marks that are mosquitettes.

Tyto & Stryx

I grew up on farms, I knew my barns,
And knew the owls inside.
As paragons of myths and yarns,
They sure did love to hide.
But even with their silent wings, I’d sight
Their calling card,
And know they still clocked-in each night
From pellets round the yard.

The barn owls are the perfect owls,
In look and lore and size.
With heart-shaped masks and earless cowls,
And wisdom in their eyes.
Until, that is, they won’t stay mute,
But let loose with their speech –
And utter not a single hoot,
But a disappointing screech.

I heard the twits and twooing too,
From tawnies in the trees,
But only from a distance, flute and mew,
In two-part harmonies.
Yet round the barns, I only hear the shriek,
Not the trill of charm –
The wrong voice for the owl I seek,
Of the poet of the farm.

Owls, of course, have their own concern,
And do not care for me.
And I should take their lead to learn
To let their natures be.
So when the golden hour is full of cries
I now can grin
As the night-shift owls in the barn arise
And start reporting-in.

Canis lupus canis

Wolves, it must be said,
Make a rubbish pet –
They’re far too wild and free.
So get a husky instead,
If you want to get
That echo of prehistory.
And the malamutes as well
Have the tundra feel,
And even alsatians at a squint –
Most laymen cannot tell
Which ones are real,
They’re built to the same blueprint.

But for all dogs look like wolves,
With their shaggy coats
In black and white and grey –
They’ll act like dogs, not wolves,
Won’t rip the throats
Of our toddlers when they play.
Our forbears spent many tens
Of thousands of years,
To breed-out the threat in the growl.
To be our deceptive friends
With the upright ears,
Who will never bite, but can still howl.

Note that a husky is no more closely related to a wolf than is a pekanese or a dachshund.  It’s true that huskies can still interbreed with wolves, but again this is true of all dogs (logistics notwithstanding…).

Bill-Knobs & Eyeliner

The Mute Swans have the pond to themselves all Summer,
So calm while their chicks are in fleece.
Oh sure, there are the quacks of Mallards,
And the Seagull squawkings never cease,
But all-in-all, they’re kings of the lake,
Seeing off the challenge of the Canada geese –
They even adopt the occasional Black,
And raise their cygnets in peace.

But come October, and in come the mobs of Whoopers,
Honking-up the air.
Even before the last of the cranes has flown,
These tourists are ev’rywhere !
The Mutes protest, but their voices can’t be heard
As the trumpets blare.
But in truth, they’ll soon be rubbing along,
As there’s duckweed-enough to share.