a baby fly drowned today
in my breakfast milk.
it moved its many legs
leaving the stage
with a tiny dance,
having lived its life
paid its dues.
I feel a strange sorrow
wondering
where are its parents
who taught it to fly,
what was its favorite food,
was it old enough
to have loved.
maybe I chased it away once
from cheese or jam
with an irritated wave.
now it has joined
the immense daily dying.
life is a perpetual
funeral.