The hand falls with a crash to the ground floor, still much too slow for
the fly quivering in mid-flight

sensing the vibrations emanating from creations
nerves juiced up for turbo mode, nowhere to go

but this way and that, reverberating with a desperate fear

that drives the quickness thoughts power the jukes,

pushing against the thick clear air as a page flutters open in a dusty old book
the fly follows a speed ripple, accelerating and buzzing faster forgetting what came before the aftershock, narrowly dodging a rolled up sock, cutting shapes in the sky leaving the echo’s behind
The little wings energized, it flies out the house and soaks in the golden black sunrise.