It’s not unusual on any given day to find myself rescuing butterflies, as I have concluded their tiny brains simply do not have the capacity to conquer the intricacies of spatial relations. My back porch is a sun trap, with windows giving a view of the garden while also providing shelter from the wind, and it has become a favourite spot for butterflies, blowflies, wasps and dragonflies. Only problem is, the butterflies seem to have a dickens of a job working out how to exit the porch. The garden is there, right in front of them, they can see it through the glass, but rather than move the one metre it would take to head back where they came from, they will literally flap around aimlessly for hours until I put them out of their misery, cup them gently in my hand, and give them their freedom.
Spent a couple of hours on the
couch reading a book when I caught sight of one in my peripheral vision.
Thinking it was just passing the window I did a double-take when I realised it
was inside, quite happy to peruse the lounge room and spend some time on the
couch near my feet. However it came to be flutterbying inside I’ll never know,
maybe it had learned a thing or two from the blowflies who hang around waiting
for that split second when you open the screen door to slip in unawares. Whatever the case, I did the usual thing, scooped it up gently and
headed out the back door.
Even when granted its
freedom, it seemed reluctant to go. Walking up and down my hand, its touch
barely noticeable, I thought it would be eager to take flight, but not so,
content instead to wander round and round the palm of my hand. I had time to
note its distinctive markings, and though just your common everyday garden
variety butterfly, it sported a unique design worthy of any artist’s deft brushstrokes.
Finally walking to the tip
of my finger, I thought take-off was imminent, but no. It turned back to face
me, proboscis seeking out every morsel of salty sweat. Was it bidding me a
final farewell? Of course not, but maybe somewhere in that minute butterfly
brain it was aware I had saved it from what could have been a sad end, for it
would have starved had it remained in the house for long.
Another ramble round my
hand, the faintest tickle, then off it went, back home to tell of its dice with
death and lucky escape.
Butterfly
walks my life line
past the Mount of Venus
strokes my heart line
with the softest touch
with the softest touch
then takes flight
from my fingertip
