A butterfly rose out from one of the trumpet flowers. Its black wings with the iridescent light blue trimming made a statement from the twenty feet that separated the butterfly from me. It was an adult atala, flying slowly from flower to flower, its body floating, suspended above the cascading green vines that popped with pinks and purples.
I leaned against the dock railing and watched the butterfly. Then it lifted from a peach colored trumpet flower, flew above the trellis and circled around me. It alighted on the railing less than a foot from my hand. I didn’t move. After a few seconds I held out my hand. The butterfly crawled to my finger, its wings seeming to balance its dark red body while it rested.
I could hear Molly’s voice, distant like the breeze at the oxbow in the river, but present as the invisible current under the dock. “Have you ever held a live butterfly in the palm of your hand, Sean? They like the human touch… the warmth that comes from our hands, and maybe our hearts.”
I cupped the butterfly gently with my left hand and walked to the end of the dock where Max was standing there waiting for me. I lifted my hand, held the butterfly on my outstretched palm and said, “Go back and lay your eggs… now you have another chance.”
The butterfly raised its wings and lifted from my palm. It flew high, catching an air current and soaring across the river, following the rainbow as it curved into the heart of the forest.