Fly in Old Snow

High up, relative
To the canyon creek,
Itself well above
The desert, itself
Above the ocean,

The snows are still thick,
The day is still cold,
And deer browse the shrubs
As they’ve been doing
Millions of winters.

If one tiny fly
That lives for a day
Could have by evening
A sense of the whole
Cosmic history

How hard would that be
For the fly? Would it
Sorrow at seeing
So little it knew
Of what it knew there?

Or would it fold up
Its wings and clean them
Watching the light fade
Through all its lenses,
Eager for twilight?