A Life by Nature Made So Short

The fly died long before I saw it: its feet still sucking the window, its eyes facing natural light (or what there was of it).

I didn't kill it.  I didn't know it was there.  I never saw it enter or try to escape.

But still I feel guilty -- having opened a door through which it flew, perhaps, not knowing this room would be its tomb.

The fly, the paint-slathered frame, the paint-dotted glass, the gray sky.

A lonely portrait made beautiful by persistence.