The fly and I

          The fly landed on the window pane. Silhouetted against the grey silver light and the streams of water blurring the world outside. Alien blue black knot of armoured energy it paused, calculating measuring and I lay in a torpor beside, cheek pressed against the cold glass, drinking the illusion of the garden melting and running.
          The feel of carpet on my knees, the white glossed window sill still faintly smelling of turps and the percussion of the rain in it’s delicate pits and pats, soothing me, lulling me further into that soft primary stance of being, watching, absorbing.
          The fly spasmed in a fit of buzzing, dancing along the glass, a stone skimming water on a lake, then came to rest again.