October sunny days a delicious surprise

I love the warm, sunny days of October. These kind of days feel like a delicious surprise; an oh, I forgot how lovely fall can be sort of day.
October can come with a lot of rain and dark skies, so I can’t help but feel blessed when I hear and feel the warm wind; a wind that is fairly insistent on moving things such as leaves of every colour, and laundry off the line, and anything I had meant to put away but didn’t—and now wish I had.
I want to be out in this wonderful October wind and without a second thought, I abandon bill-paying and bed-making and laundry-washing and grab my camera to try to capture the most fabulous images my eyes can even imagine.
Such gorgeous October weather peels away the years and I am left with the urge to skip and swing and hunt for mushrooms and imagine all kinds of adventures.
October weather does this like no other weather can. But (and I must preface this with an apology) despite my tremendous adoration of warm October days, I hate the flies.
When the October sun heats up the windows and cracks and crevices, in which flies like to hide, these same flies come to life; are given that second chance to turn into kamikaze daredevils.
They seem the size of helicopters and make about the same amount of racket. They collide with everything in their paths and it seems like deliberate collisions—a last effort to literally leave their mark on the world (or at the very least, leave their mark on my windows).
They bounce off lamp shades and inside glasses, and dive-bomb my hair. Even Gracie the wonder dog is put off by them. She does her part to reduce their numbers, but as fast as I dispose of them, there seems to be another wakened from sleep.
I’m not sure why fall flies are more annoying than summer flies, and maybe they’re not. Maybe my memory is so vague that I only can bear witness to this current frustrating pest as though it was the worst ever.
Summer flies seem smaller and swifter. They don’t practice the same air manoeuvres. And even as I am writing this, a fly the size of my thumb (it seems) is bumping into my head and all the waving of my arms makes it very hard to type.
I came close to taking out my own eye with a ballpoint pen and not intentionally, either. Where’s the Raid?
I’ve become a kinder person in my reaction to what I used to call pests. If I find a spider, rather than squashing him, I urge him to live outdoors where he can build webs to his heart’s content.
I certainly let the bees do their thing, and I practice all manner of constraint when I feel threatened by bees and their stingers. I must admit, I still squash ants and that’s probably not an admirable thing to be boasting about, but there you have it. None of us are perfect.
Fruit flies, though I suppose they have a purpose, are so irksome that I build traps to capture them because, quite simply, there’s just no squishing those little brutes. They seem more like a squadron than a single entity, flying in formation over the bananas and ripening pears.
They’re like an insect fog that no amount of waving can get rid of.
But as annoying as ants and fruit flies are, they don’t come close to the level of disdain I feel toward the October fly.
Maybe, just maybe, the October fly serves a greater service: it encourages me to welcome the cold weather because when I waken and see the grass all white with frost, I shout right out loud, “Hah! Take that you annoying October fly and so much for your last kick at the can!”