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butterfly wings

I’m a wild girl with fast feet in waist high grass that hisses as it bends. The brisk breeze catapults the crafty creature I am chasing, making my effort futile. It floats away with barely a flutter of its beautiful bronze, and black spotted wings.

I can transport in an instant. I hear the high-pitched screech of summer bug chatter. Heat ripples the horizon like melting brown toffee. I make dusty steps for a mile—east down the gravel road to the salt flats by the rail tie bridge. I sit and watch water-striders skip across sharp, stagnant water.

I take my time in the pasture gathering blue bells, and sleepy heads, and black-eyed Susans. My gift-bouquet carelessly sheds small black bugs onto the windowsill as it slurps well water from a breakfast glass.

I am free like the butterflies I am chasing.

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