A thousand soft yellow flies died in the crevices of my window last night.
I don’t know what kind they were or where they came from, but they formed a great ball of noise and movement that filtered over the front lawn-
-and ended, futilely, in the space between the screen and the pane of glass.
I didn’t see them the next day.
Like the soft, sweet blossoms on the bank above the creek-
Like the migratory birds that drink from the pond-
They carry a single, driven moment of intensity and vanish once it has passed.
They are obvious ephemera-
Violently here, then gone.
All moments pass this way, though.
All seconds and minutes and hours.
It pays to watch the progress of the sun in the sky.
The slow, sleepy waking of a butterfly warming from the cold of the night.
I am a greedy seizer of passing moments, in stories and in life.