Lovebugs - Plecia Nearctica

A flurry grays the April air as clouds of speckles swirl and mate, euphoric, blazing, unaware of windshields on the interstate hurtling through their fevered storm. These whirlwind-wings pursuing their fate, in red and black above the warm blacktop, link up and live three days. Tripping on truck exhaust, they swarm, convinced it’s flora which decays. They catch the fumes, sweet as the spice of rot, home in on motorways and, as they’re turned to mush, think, “Nice!— manure, grass clippings—paradise!”