I do not have the heart to chase
after this earlybird that zooms
into the house through the open
back door—because it’s far too fair
out there to keep it closed.

I hear him buzzing the kitchen,
though I don’t see him till I’m sitting
at my desk, and he zeroes in on
the light over the computer,
noodling around the edge,
daring to alight on the bulb,
which I’d think would be awfully
hot on little fly feet.

I know that before long I’ll be
annoyed by this fly and its brethren
that will follow, that I’ll be relieved
when the flies disappear with
the cold weather—which makes
me instantly long for spring.

But flies—along with the exploding
wisteria pods over the driveway,
scattering their button-sized seeds
all over before the purple flowers
pop from the nubbins of buds—

signal spring on these sunny,
green-grass and early azalea days.
Even those of us who have not
weathered months of ice and snow
grin like little kids hunting for
Easter eggs,

delighted by the discovery of
the familiar reappearing. Even
pesky flies like the one waltzing
across the wall in front of me—
onetwothree, onetwothree—
exploring this strange, new land.