A Drowning Fly
My first day at my favourite lake began in a mist' of rain, but after an hour the mist was carried away by the wind and a watery sun broke through. The air was warm and on the far side of the lake I could see a calm area where the surface was like glass. When I reached the place I was taken by the effect of a small breeze, no more than the softest breath of wind that picked up the water every now and then and made it run in a line like a fish breaking the surface. A large fly dropped on the calm area and spun and buzzed, disturbing the water so that a perch came up to investigate the vibrating rings. The perch declined the meal and I stood watching until my boots were bedded in the marshy ground. The calm in that sheltered part continued and the fly managed to propel itself farther and farther out, bent on self- destruction, I thought, until it reached the edge of the still water and was taken by a swell and drifted into choppy seas. I could see the fly no longer. Somewhere out there it would certainly perish, and I wondered whether it would be washed up on the far side where little waves danced, penning the flotsam of the lake among the boulders.
Previous page
