Flies buzz, trapped, in the windows. Sun and warmth strike their slumbering and they want out into March. Over and over again they dash against the windowpane, dreaming of springtime and frogs and honeyed wildflowers.
I open the window, slowly cranking it outward, shooing them into flight. Will they freeze before dawn? Will they regret their hasty escape into spring? When leaves bud too quickly, before frost departs for its northern cave, they shrivel and drop off the eager fingers of trees. Do flies revel in the escape into sunlight and warmth, only to feel wings turning to stone as the moon eyes the night sky?
Do you dare call the black-winged fly a tiny angel? Do you dare go that far? Or do you swat, swat, swat it back unto its death before the frost lassoes it?
If the fly dressed in white robes, would you call her Tinkerbell? Would we kneel before her beauty, amazed at her purity? Like the white dove of peace would we coo before her?
“Shoo, outside!” I say, spring breeze fluttering tiny wings. The fly pauses.
Are we executioner or savior?
Quickly…out you go!