Photograph of bluebells by LeAnn Spencer
Summer's Alphabet
August, and the flies come inside to die. Bold, slow, they linger for a moment on the softened half-stick of butter. Crazy from the months of heat, they circle. Dive to nowhere in particular. Easy does it--the landings a bit more cautious. Fat, lazy, nearly buzzless. Gone is their taste for torment. Housebound, they decide, is not a bad way to go. Idyllic, even: Just let me lie here on this windowsill for a minute. Killing them is pointless. Lethargic and listless, as a passing friend. Maybe a minute too long on my bare wrist. Not so annoyed to flick them away.
Only a few more weeks of this small death to endure. Perhaps there’s reconcilliation in the air flapping aside the new winds. Quiet black wings barely a blur. Resistance futile.
Summer’s unbroken heat blunted by morning chill. Tomorrow a shorter day, this they know. Useless to wonder where the days went, they are past and past and past. Vines, sticky and smelly from overripe tomatoes, pose one final temptation. Winding wildly around wire frames, there’s no taming them now. Xanthian grief. Yawing, veering, dizzy with death. Zecchini, black, shiny in the afternoon light, glimmering at their nadir.
Copyright © 2008 Patricia Cronin. All rights reserved.