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.