Green bug with a bronze shield for your back, you landed on my car door while I was inside the supermarket. When I produced my camera, like a crazed, bug-stalking paparazzo, you scuttled short distances along the paintwork, alongside the window, oblivious to your own reflection, only conscious of some larger, looming threat. I snapped. Blurred, I fixed you in digital pixels imprinted on my memory card. Blurred and over-exposed, a shadow of yourself that I would later manipulate pixel by pixel to try to bring you back to life. I got into the car. You didn’t budge from your resting place. I started the engine and edged out of the parking space. You calmly climbed on slightly suckered feet up the window, distracting me as I drove with your bright colours. Anxious about your tiny body bending to the wind, I slowed down, pulled over, came to a halt. You relaxed. I watched you through the window, reluctant to drive off, but also wanting to take you home. I started to open the window, hoping to entice you in, away from the wind. It was then that you revealed you had wings. It was then that you flew away.