It’s minus 22 C out. Frigid. My woodpile has been frozen under a heap of snow since the fall. So I bring in the day’s supply for the stove. I pick up a punky block and split it open with my little axe, ready to toss the pieces into the fire.
Before I can open the firebox door, I have flies buzzing about my head. Black, sleek vigorous flies as though on a summer day. Where have they come from in February?
To my amazement, I see them strolling nonchalantly out, fully functional and unfrozen, from holes in the wood I have just split open. Wood that has come in from months of sub zero ice and snow. They must be tough Canadian flies who laugh at blizzards and get high swilling antifreeze in their palatial wooden tunnels. Their home has gone into the stove now but I’m sure they will make themselves comfortable in the rafters until it’s time to dive bomb me in the spring.