Snow Flea — Summary

Dave BontaCheerful

Hypogastrura nivicola

The snow flea is rarely found alone. Though if it were, who but another snow flea would notice it against the snow, a single speck of pepper, a mote of ash? Come March & they move en masse, transhumant across their blue-shadowed host. Approach too close & they start to rocket about like acrobats in a mad flea circus. There’s safety in numbers, & in the unpredictability of a random launch — the wingless springtail’s main defense. True, one sometimes goes straight up & returns to the same, dangerous spot, but what bird wants to mess with such unquiet seeds?

The snow flea is as self-reliant as its cousin the true flea is dependent. It absorbs moisture through a feeding tube in its abdomen & breathes directly through its thick skin. Its blood contains a protein that prevents it from ever freezing & hardening into knives.

The snow flea never stops molting, even after becoming an adult. Life alternates between two phases, mating & eating, with a complete change of skin after each. Nor does the fastidiousness end there: all reproduction is by post. The male deposits a tidy packet of sperm at some convenient location & the female stops by later & picks it up. To everything its season. And when the snow melts? The snow flea walks on water if it must, & returns at last — recalcitrant seasoning — to the soil’s dark goulash.

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Dave Bonta's poem is a close, affectionate portrait of the snow flea, a tiny springtail that shows up as dark specks on late-winter snow. He begins with how hard it is to picture one alone, since a lone speck would vanish against the white. In groups, they leap about unpredictably, and the poem suggests this chaos is their protection. He compares them to "unquiet seeds" no bird would want to bother with.

The second half piles up odd facts: the creature's antifreeze-like blood, its constant molting, and its tidy method of reproduction, where the male leaves a packet and the female collects it later. The speaker sounds amused and quietly admiring, with a dry wit in phrases like "all reproduction is by post." The mood is playful but attentive. The ending, where the fleas return to the soil's "dark goulash," makes the cycle of seasons feel humble, practical, and oddly comforting.

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