We called them shadflies, but they swarmed just the same, coming up off the river, smelling like dead fish; smelling like shad.
Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, Wordle 117.
Grandaddy didn’t bribe me with money or candy; he gave me big words. Words that sounded better. Words that slid and floated off his tongue. And my six year old self was enthralled. Not clumsy, ambisinister. Using such words would, he said, “bamboozle the narrow-minded whose brain cavities are empty chambers.”
He pointed to the cloud of mayflies engulfing the world beyond the porch. “Ephemerid are benign, though you itch and shiver!” He explained the short life cycle leading to their destruction. We rocked in our rockers, safe on the porch, as the ground became plush with their last flutterings.