To a Fish Fly on my Window

How do you stay so calm - some wisdom, or
do you just take for given that the wind
knows what it does? What are you clinging for?  
You hatched two days ago - now at the end 
(a flight from lake to glass of forty miles,
my window your last perch) it’s time to die.
Strange attitude, considering your trials.
Now me, I’d want some answers, I won’t lie.
 

But I would listen to a story of
ascending from the deep into the mass
of copulating billions, thick above
the egg stained morning waters, of the bass
and walleye, perch and sunfish, maws agape 
with expectation, and of how a gust 
upsnatched you to a cloud, to your escape
in tumbling free fall, hurled and upward thrust,
 

then down again through forty miles of air.
To hear of it might check the pointlessness
of flight, with flights imagined - of despair
at too much thought, with story.  I would guess
you learned a thing or two along the way,
somehow, in plunging headlong through the blue,
of which things matter, and which don’t.  Today - 
or half your life  - spent pondering the few
more hours, miles and tumbles gained may be 
worthwhile, I’d like to think - this glass at dawn 
a fit place for such musing, like a sea 
at twilight, flat as peace, to float upon.