The last few flies of tiny size
Try to escape the cold
And fly around my hot bath steam,
One lands and thinks he’s bold.
I snatch him up and squeeze him dead,
Toss him into the broth
And down the drain soon he will go
With his brother moth.
Most birds are gone, the leaves have turned,
The loons swim near the dock,
There’s no one there to disturb
The tiny floating flock.
The breath of warmth begins to fade,
The sun begins to drop,
Tomorrow is just one more day
That’s closer to the frost.