Benita J. Prins

I watched a fly die this evening. It’s funny – I’ve killed myriads of flies with the swatter, but never before have I seen one die of natural causes. The creature buzzed about a bit on the planks of the deck, then flopped onto its back and lay quite still. It was rather curious to watch it. I wonder what a fly feels like when it’s dying. Or does it feel anything? That question will distract me for a few hours, and then I’ll forget all about the fly.

There’s something on the tree out front of the house. I have no idea what kind of tree it is, but it has bunches of teeny white flowers, almost like a lilac’s save the colour, and the flowers smell simply divine. Anyway, the something looks very like a hummingbird sitting on the twig and sipping from the flowers. I daresay it’s nothing but a stray leaf, yet its shape captured and holds my fancy.

The seven pines at the back of the yard are perfectly still in the sticky evening air. High and dark against the drab sky, they present a striking spectacle. I’m fearfully bad at estimating, but I’ll hazard that they’re perhaps a hundred feet tall. The birds are conducting their customary evening gossip, and I suspect one or two of them are secreted in the pines somewhere.

I’m half nervous it’s going to rain and wet all my work; still, I don’t feel like going inside just yet. It’s so pleasant just to sit here and smell the cedars.