Iridescent Fly

It was April 26, 1998. Sunday morning. A splendid day. A perfect day. As the Psalmist so eloquently put it, “My heart overflowed with a goodly theme,” and I recorded the following in my journal: “Thank You, Lord, for this day. The Seven Sisters rose bush is blooming resplendently. The birds are singing full-throated in a glorious hymn of praise. The lawn resembles a plush velvety carpet, green and vibrant. The squirrels are chuckling in their characteristically mischievous way. Every now and then the faint scent of sweet olive slips past me. It’s a heavenly day on this earthly plane.”
My pen flowed poetically across the page as I reached for my cup of coffee, freshly brewed and enticingly aromatic. Then, just as I tipped the cup to take my first sip, I noticed it. An iridescent fly, so miniscule I almost missed it, doing a frantic backstroke in an effort to free itself from the rich, dark liquid.
It was such a tiny mite, yet powerful enough to put the brakes on my poetic preoccupations.
“Oh, well,” I mused, “paradise still awaits.”
I threw the coffee out onto the grass and hoped that the fly would be able to dry itself off and proceed with its day, perhaps, like me, a bit dampened in spirits but alive nonetheless, ready to meet the morning with the certain realization that in spite of the kinks, it was still a beautiful world.

Iridescent Fly

Bonnie T.  Barry

Sunset, United States

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