I watch the winged
drown in the cider
trap
feel
a tinge
sorry
for their floating bodies
no longer flitting
annoying gnats
helicoptering the tomatoes
the pears
the compost bucket.
I rationalize that
their last moments were
at least
debauched
for flies.
Then I reflect on
the soldiers
drowning in mud
swatted from this planet
wilfully
so I might eat this fruit
in freedom.
…nice job on the poem… and the fleas… a distant relative died in the muck… now part of that universal compost bucket…
I’m grateful my Great-Uncle, Fred survived that mud at Paschendaele. I’m reading his 200+ letters home now.