Stray paint from other work, layers of light on dark on light, the bottle cap, the fly, caught, falling in a quick slash to canvas. Everyone gives you credit for gravity. I stand in front of the whole while all my thoughts filter through the small fly. The streaks of black, white, and green are freckled with skin tones, my sister’s, both wintered and tanned, the same as when we found a hollow wasp lying silenced on the front porch, its wings outstretched as if it might again fly. Curiosity took hold of my sister and, poking the wasp with the freshly painted nail of her finger, the wasp adhered.