A Long Way Round to Something Spectacular

It's a long way round Lake Cheston on a blustery gray day.  I looked and did not find a single dagonfly, though one female Fragile Forktail, a lot of grasshoppers, and one leafhopper tempted me.  Not only that, but half the leaves I saw yesterday on limbs collected in quiet pockets, littering the ground and the water, crenallated with wind.

Only when I reached for my car door did I find the something spectacular I always hope to see: a tiny fly.  Investigating the window framing and then the glass itself, the fly probed and studied and stuck until finally it decided to surrender and lift off.

Marsh Fly

And I remembered this:

The Fly by William Blake

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.