In the whim of some productive impulse, the fly left the wall of the conservatory and ventured out into the meadow beyond.
Through that aromatic air came a fly, its path so confident as if it had air-control guiding it in.
A fly landed, her wings matching the leaded windows under her six feet; she then proceeded to move over the glass as if she were enjoying a casual jog.
There came a familiar buzzing that doubtless sounded as a diner bell to the local frogs. Camille would watch them if they lighted nearby, ever amazed at the transparency of their wings.
The fly was walking up the window the same way I'd stroll over grass, utterly free of gravity even with rested wings.
If the fly in the room had been made by human hand it would have been hailed as a marvel. The compound eye alone is astonishing. It is a sort of natural technology, as are we all.
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