I’m again sitting in the back yard, surveying my handiwork (more about that in a later post), and I notice in the rays of the setting sun scores of little white dots hovering above my freshly tilled soil. They are members of a tiny fly species of some kind, and they fill the bands of light with so much Brownian motion. Accompanied by something playing on my “Tosca” station on Pandora, they assume a significance that would surely be enhanced by entheogenic substances of one kind or another.
These tiny points of life are visible only when they are in the sunlight. As soon as they drift into shadow, they vanish. If the sun were blocked, one would never know that the yard is full of life.
In contrast to their lazy, to me it’s lazy, to them I’m sure it’s frantic, floating about, there are occasional meteors of something dropping straight to the ground. It seems to be coming from the trees. Exudations of some kind? Caterpillar excrement? I don’t know and cannot tell where it’s coming from.
More determined insects, predators?, zip through the space, bursting into view from one side of a block of sunlight and blazing straight across the band before vanishing again.
The sun is about to drop into position to blaze directly into my eyes. Time to go find something to eat.
Another poem, if I were a poet.