(She who Dances)

Butterflies gather by the babbling brook. Budding flowers wait with patience, awakened from seed by the blistering spring heat. Songbirds and singing insects around me fall still as I walk but I can hear their companions further away. I walk the water’s path. The butterflies flitter around me, too many to count, softly brushing against my skin like goodnight kisses from my mother. A few butterfly wings are touched by the sunlight that filters through the ceiling of trees like flashes of magick at dusk.

Years later I drive through a butterfly migration. Many of them succumb against my windscreen.

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