Fly Racing...

So today, whilst nonchalantly sipping my instant coffee (only the best for me) and watching my dog lick the last of my cereal milk from the bowl (which eventually ended up almost under the couch), I noticed several flies on the window.

Since we leave the doors open for the pets, flies are not an uncommon occurrence in the house—at any given time, we probably have 2-3 hanging around, pissing off the dogs that are too lazy/too scared to work their way around the cats to eat them. These flies, however, were different.

Three small, determined little bastards seemed to be in a race to get to the top of the window. Not sure why, but they're not at the top of the evolutionary food chain for a reason, now aren't they? Anyways, seeing as how I've working in the horse racing industry for entirely too long, I started narrating their race, adding little names to them as they scuttled.

“It's Fly Me to the Moon in the lead, followed closely by Free Flyin' and Flyin' High bringing up the rear—Free Flyin' is closing the gap and might just catch up—OH NO! Free Flyin' has fallen off the fucking window and hit the sill behind the couch! Fly Me to the Moon seems to have taken a break and is resting—this could cost him dearly in the last leg. Flyin' High has forgotten where he's going, and—yes folks, he appears to be wandering SIDEWAYS on the track! Free Flyin' is still trying desperately to get back in the game, but he can't seem to figure out how to get out from between the window and the couch! He's jumping, he's flyin', but he keeps hitting the window and OOOH NOOO he's down again! Now it's between Fly Me to the Moon and Flyin' High, he's going, going, goooone! Folks for the third consecutive time, Fly Me to the Moon has won the Window Cup!”

I probably spent a good 10 minutes doing this....this is why I shouldn't be left to my own devices when I am in possession of caffiene.

And my dog just won't stop barking at them...

“The fireflies are out.”

They float and turn like some burning ember drifting from a fire, catching on the leaves and in the air before fading away almost as quickly.

Something new for me, a west-coaster. We have frogs, we have slugs, and we have mosquitos. But fireflies? No, nothing so quaint, so dainty, so memorable as those horny little beetles anxious to get a piece before they pass along into the soil they spent so much time cradled in.

I sit outside, the pale, sickly blue-yellow sky fading into a dusty indigo flecked with stars as I look farther and higher up. Trees form near-silhouettes on the border of my vision around me, surrounding me with a quiet arena of summer evenings.

They're pretty slow-moving, these fireflies. They nearly lumber about in the air, seemingly unconcerned by birds, bats or the easily distracted house cat. Just embers, drifting off to sleep, flicking off and on from the corners of your vision and skipping out of sight when you look at them, like when you rub your eyes too hard with your fists.

Power cables stretch across the backyard, and the bugs glint into a nearby lawn, behind the bushes and out of my line o fision.

Except one. Or two. They always come back. Just to remind you that they're still there. That they're still horny, still looking for a mate, and still drifting slowly away from that fire, and ever back towards the soil...