THE FLY by William Blake

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou

A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.

My experiences with flies and over 25 different breeds of cats, have allowed me to think and conclude that death and destiny are common denominators but variety is the spice of life.