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Lorraine Lener Ciancio

Aspen Trail, Santa Fe

Sitting on a bench writing about the cloud-diffused mountain view in front of me, something about how they echo Japanese brush paintings, four black flies land on my notebook. Because I am wearing reading glasses they appear in all their insect detail. I stop writing and watch. They have green eyes, rub front legs together like gluttons rubbing their hands in anticipation at a feast. Papery wings open and close. They traverse the exact path of a sentence, the curl of a capital letter. One stops on top of a period. Another hesitates on a comma. When I slowly remove my glasses the flies look like letters written with a black marker pen. No more or less significant than my inky words.

flies on my notebook
suddenly airborne
my muse goes with them