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Left behind

 

 On my work bench one day, in the very late summer, I found a beautiful but very dead butterfly.  His wings were folded across his body, like a woman pulls a scarf across her chest on a cold and windy day.  There were no clues as to why he no longer lived.  It seemed as though the butterfly simply ran out of time and fell asleep.  I left him on the work table.  Several weeks later, I went upstairs to my studio on a weekend morning.  All that remained on the workbench was this.  Just a wing, still irridescent, as if it were shed just that morning.  Very fragile, delicately removed.  

I chose not to think about what carried off the remains or even how the wing detached.  Butterflies do not hibernate, their little lives so very short, their only goal:  to reproduce.  Butterflies are one of summer’s many anticipated treasures.

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