Rather Suspect

During one strange year I lived in a small bungalow in Wine Country. The kitchen opened onto a wooden deck, and next to the deck was a purple-flowering shrub the owner referred to as the Butterfly Tree.

Most afternoons I would sit outside in the sunshine and soon enough two butterflies would arrive, flitting about between the flowers. I guessed every day they were the same two, making their rounds.

I never thought to ask them their purpose or inquire as to their future plans. What future could there be that was better than this? A joyful late-afternoon dance with each other and with the tree, the three of them silently nodding to me in the long light under that infinitely blue sky.