A LITTLE FLY was crouched upon an oak leaf, warming his back and wings in the early sun. He noticed my presence, turned a few times, then flew off.
To be a fly: Each moment of his ephemeral existence carries the horrible awareness that to be still is to invite death by food chain. Yet he braves the unknown, believing he will, at any moment, find a chance for love and happiness.
Desire moves everything on earth, it seems.
Thwarticus 