Through that aromatic air came a fly, its path so confident as if it had air-control guiding it in.
The fly, an astonishing bio-machine of nature, alighted on a nearby leaf.
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.
In the whim of some productive impulse, the fly left the wall of the conservatory and ventured out into the meadow beyond.
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.
Upon the fly was a sort of rainbow sheen, its exoskeleton quite iridescent in the sun.
The fly was walking up the window the same way I'd stroll over grass, utterly free of gravity even with rested wings.
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.
There they were upon the manure, the flies, recycling the dung into fat maggots.
Seeing the fly brought maggots to Ted's thoughts, fat juicy maggots on his fishing line.