We’ve all heard about the rose that grew from the concrete. This is the story about the butterfly that nose-dived onto the pavement.
After a refreshing swim in the lake, I was ready to eat. Under a clear blue sky, a scorching sun pressing onto me. Backpack holding my weight for a long walk by a big blue lake. Up on the surrounding trees, an orchestra of crickets of some kind guiding me all around, nothing could overcome their sound, not even the occasional car passing by. There was a constant stream of butterflies and like them, I was drifting, with no aim but where I was, pollinating.
One yellow butterfly took my attention as it flew over the road, turning my neck I followed. Elevated until it was about leveled with my nose, it took a straight dive onto the hot asphalt. As though unphased by the impact, it bounced right up, flies over to a nearby bush and lands. I run over to check and see if it is okay. Is it bruised? Is it wounded? Perfectly still on a leaf, it humbly flies up again as another butterfly joins and playfully they flutter away with no recollections.