That day in May, when the ephemeral fly dragged itself out of the water, was a squally one. A heavy storm brought an end to a drought that had devastated the river valley. 

But the day of a mayfly’s birth is also the day of its death; its dawning and twilight never attain the status of metaphor. It had only time enough to attempt some faltering flights amid the lightning and hail, only time enough to mate, take shelter, and carve a few philosophical reflexions on the underside of a reed.

Its offspring emerged on a radiant day, when a breeze caressed the river’s turquoise pools. They never understood the aphorisms that their ancestor had bequeathed them — terse, sombre aphorisms that had such little connection with reality.