The Bug

Appearing on my book’s left page
a black-winged bug
whose name still a mystery
resting for a moment
against the soft yellow pages

Its body, except for its head
entirely covered with long black wings
made out of the most sophisticated fabric
and carved by thin black lines
wiggling in perfect alignment

Its legs were as thin as eyelashes
as strong as cherry tree branches
perfectly angled for supporting
the whole of its weight

It stood still for a few seconds
seeking nothing, it seemed
like an old man
sitting on his front porch
his quest long ago forgotten

Then answering life’s mysterious call
it spread its wings and floated away
in the moist afternoon air
leaving me alone with my book

and its image slowly fading
with each second
until I’m left with only a blur