Every season the flies end up inside
Come late autumn
Clutching to curtain strings
To warm ceilings
Their wings twitch
Their movements slow
They are not the those annoying objects you once knew
They can be picked up and almost coddled
They move around a bit out of habit and return
To regain comfort
Sometimes a warm front rolls through
And they pound against the window once again
Then it gets cold
The process starts over
They don't search for help
Or seem to understand what biological process
Brought them there
They just seem to know the warmth of the sun