I don’t know why this passage from The Anthologist keeps coming back to me, but it does, so I looked it up again. I can imagine the scene so vividly, the slightly misty early morning, so quiet and still and lonely, save this damn fly.
“And now I’m back outside again sitting in the white plastic chair looking at the dew on the gas cap of my car. A fly wants to bite me on the ankle. The mosquitoes are all asleep. They’re just not out at this hour. Only one biting fly. And a mourning dove, who blows through his thumbs to make that sound.”