You told me to write about butterflies, something evidently to kick me out of this slump. But I cannot write about butterflies, as not so many come by here.
That's not entirely true, of course. Occasionally there's a yellow or a white one, some cause for celebration. And we saw a Monarch today. One Monarch several blocks from here who managed to find some shade in the evening beside a pond.
But what will happen when the butterflies don't come? When the flowers wilt in the blazing sun and the silent spring that we thought we had avoided shows up in spite of our late twentieth century satisfaction that we had turned that corner. When the ice melts. When the bee hives don't hum. When the mountaintops are gone. And waves lap on deserted shores.
When the last tree falls, no one will be here to hear it.
Dang. Why did I have to write about butterflies, anyway!?
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