Venatus landed on a dead mouse that the cat had left by the balcony
door. Other flies came. Venatus listened carefully to the songs of the birds, the
chirping of the crickets, and the cawing of crows, and soon the buzzing of flies
as they came to the meal. He basked in the warmth of the sun’s rays.
It was beautiful.
The door opened. The man, with a plastic bag in his hand, stepped
out to get the mouse. The flies flew in all different directions. Some flew
away towards the forest, others tried to land back onto the mouse before he
could carry it off, but some other flies had other ideas.
“Let’s go inside,” a fly said to his two friends. “I bet
they have some good stuff in there!”
“No!” Venatus said. “The humans will—”
The flies flew in, and the human disappeared back into the
house with the dead mouse in a plastic bag.
“Ugh, not more flies!” he heard the girl cry, and he saw a flash
of the red fly swatter.
An image of Buster flashed into his mind. Venatus shook his
head and flew to the garden, landing on a sunflower. Caw, caw, the crows
went. He didn’t want to think about what would happen to those flies, or about
what had happened to Buster. Instead, he observed the sunflower, and, for the
first time, enjoyed the cawing of crows.
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