That was easy.

There was a fly stumbling around in the kitchen this morning.  It was moving awfully slow.  It even landed on the floor a few times.  I figured it was not meant for this world much longer, but I didn't have the heart to kill it.  There's a door leading outside to the backyard on the other side of the room.  That was when I started trying to herd the fly toward the door.  Have you ever tried herding a fly?  Well, try herding cats and then multiply the difficulty by 10.

Dish towel in hand, I waved it around yelling, "I'm trying to save you, fly!  Can't you feel the cold air blowing in?  Go, go!"  Well, a few minutes later he finally went.  I watched him zip out and then I shut the door on Old Man Winter and went about my business.

Cut to lunch time.  I'm in the kitchen again and what do I hear?  That old familiar buzzing.  What the heck?  Now, I know for a fact the first one went out, and the door was locked up tight after it.  This had to be . . . the first fly's sister/cousin/stepmother?  For a minute I entertained the idea that I was at the beginning of a horror movie where flies start to show up one by one until there's a big reveal of a scary guy opening his mouth and thousands of flies swarming out.  Still, I was trying to avoid killing it.  I figured since I got the first one outside, I could do the same for its relative (or minion of Satan).  Well, this one had a little more pep in his step (zing in his wing?), and he just would not go.

By the time my family arrived home later in the evening he was still buzzing around.  I ventured out the back door to cut some rosemary for dinner, and when I came back my dad was folding up a dish towel, looking pretty pleased with himself.  I looked at him, questioningly.  He assured me the fly was taken care of.  He had "whacked" him.  Oh. 

The Fly

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

-William Blake