Folly

The Fly on the Chariot Wheel

Late afternoon on a county road, dust lifts in sheets. Two black horses lean into their collars, traces humming, the big wheel shouldering the ruts. Spokes blur to rain. On the iron hub a fat fly rides, legs splayed, wings half-open like a cape. It looks back at the cloud boiling behind the procession and settles higher on the rim, lord of the storm. The driver clicks his tongue; the team gathers themselves; the road keeps unrolling. The fly holds fast, pleased, certain it is making weather.

We drift beside power and mistake nearness for force. In meetings, a bystander with a loud recap becomes the engine of the project. A passenger at day’s end says we made great time, as if the wheel answered his watch. On social posts, someone quotes the work and claims the wave. The smallest lift loves the largest story, because the story is free. Meanwhile the horses breathe hard and say nothing.

Therefore

Let credit track load. Speak last, and measure by pull, not by dust.

A small reminder, on the monitor bezel or the toolbox lid, that dust and noise are not proof of pulling, and clouds follow anyone rolling.