Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida Sewing the Sail

sun was near the horizon.
The shortest-lived creatures on the Disc were mayflies, which barely make it through twenty-four hours. Two of the oldest zigzagged aimlessly over the waters of a trout stream, discussing history with some younger members of the evening hatching.
‘You don’t get the kind of sun now that you used to get, ‘ said one of them.
‘You’re right there. We had proper sun in the good old hours. It were all yellow. None of this red stuff.’
‘It were higher, too.’
‘It was. You’re right.’
‘And nymphs and larvae showed you a bit of respect.’
‘They.’And there was a cow.’ ‘That’s right! You’re right! I remember that cow! Stood right over there for, oh, forty, fifty minutes. It was brown, as I recall.’ ‘You don’t get cows like that these hours.’
‘You don’t get cows at all.’
‘What’s a cow?’ said one of the hatchlings.
‘See?’ said the oldest mayfly triumphantly.’That’s modern did. They did,’ said the other mayfly vehemently. ‘I reckon, if mayflies these hours behaved a bit better, we’d still be having proper sun.’The younger mayflies listened politely.‘I remember, ‘ said one of the oldest mayflies, ‘when all this was fields, as far as you could see.’The younger mayflies looked around.‘It’s still fields,’ one of them ventured, after a polite interval.‘I remember when it was better fields,’ said the old mayfly sharply.‘Yeah, ‘ said his colleague