Housefly

When was the last time a housefly brought tears of joy to my eyes?
It is late morning. I have just returned from sharing some Tai Chi and Qiqong. I feel a little sticky.
One solitary half slice of rye toast remains on the counter from another's breakfast. It is soaked with butter, slathered with dark red jam, and quite crusty. If the English like their toast old and cold, why not me? I will not let it go to waste.
So i boiled some water for barley tea and sat down to write.
A fly tangles itself in my hair, or at least the buzzing leads me to this notion. Eventually it tires of the jungle up on top, and comes to visit the vast expanse of dew-covered forehead. Ah, here is tasty stuff, it tells me.
"Sir, or Madame, do you mind?!" I think to it.
Then i lower the hand that was en route to a squashing slap, and i chuckle to myself. What do flies do? Well, i can guess with some assurance that this is not the Wrong Sort of fly, which bites and leaves pathogens behind and an itchy red welt. This is the harmless sort which makes lazy sweeping swoops through the kitchen. This sort leaves tiny circular deposits that frustrate those with a fastidious approach to window-washing.
I did not make the fly.
Flies have always gone after sweaty foreheads, no?
Well, always might be taking it a little too far back, but...
And the thoughts buzz around louder and with heavier footsteps than the fly, as Darwinist and anti-Darwinist paradigms ping off each other with the odd reference to molecular physics and behavioral psychology.
So i let them continue. And i follow the fly. Maybe i will capitalize 'Fly'.
Dear Fly, thank you for coming to teach me a little something, or to un-teach me something that has served its term. I'm not sure which.
Shye-shye, Thank you