The first flickering fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon. Flug held his gossamer wings stiff, as a zephyr whispered through the grasses and caught his weight.
He loved summer parties, but it had been a long night and he was tired. Coasting on a steady breeze instead of flapping his wings felt like sweet relief.
He caught an updraught that brought him to the highest bough of the old oak tree. There was a knot in the trunk, hollowed out by a woodpecker, he supposed. It had been long abandoned to fall into doss house dankness. Once a snug fit for its original inhabitant, for Flug, it was cavernous. Not that he cared. It was comfortable enough to sleep in, and he didn’t mind the dark or damp. His eyesight had never been very good anyway, and he found wading through water oddly comforting.
Flug shook his wings and folded them carefully in to his body as he landed. He trudged to the entrance of his hidey-hole.
The sun’s light didn’t penetrate the deepest reaches of his temporary home, but here at the entrance, the murky liquid on the floor held the sun captive, a shimmering jewel trapped in its watery cage.
As Flug crossed the threshold, he caught sight of his reflection in the pooled water. Blood speckled his face. He scooped a handful of water from the puddle at his feet and washed his face gruffly. Then very gently, with exacting care, he wiped the length of his proboscis, sucking the last of the blood trapped there into him. When it was finally clean enough, Flug coiled his proboscis tightly between his palps and patted his bloated abdomen.
It had been a very successful night of feasting. He loved summer parties, and there had been no mosquito coils or bug zappers at last night’s.