Dripping up the well wall, climbing toward the light,
the littlest bug you ever did see, putting up a fight.

Staring at the surface, smiling at the ground,
the deepest gaze it ever did do, processing the sound.

Spinning to the sun, goes living in the feeling of home.
Wings flutter off to the clouds, focused like a fire,
they don’t look away, couldn’t look away.
Take time to get what they’re seeking.

Keeps moving. Fly’s walking.
Keeps talking. Fly’s grooving.
Keeps always just lookin’ around.
Sun’s just lookin’ around.

Climbing to the pinhole, finding fresh, fresh air,
the littlest bug you ever did see, getting itself there.

Eyeballing the highway, taking in the land,
the brightest sun that ever did fly, reaches out its hand.

Cacti shadows slide into nothing after sunset.
Who’s ever out there to see it?
Who’s ever looking around?

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