She’s on the ground right in front of me, in the newly mown path that cuts through the prairie, opening and closing her wings as if she’s airing them out, or doing her morning stretches. I almost step over her without a second glance—a small, brown butterfly in the grass—and then she does a full flexing of her wings and mercy, what wings. A pair of perfectly round circles, white with deep blue inside, a smaller set below them, tiny orange lines like epaulettes on the shoulder. A miniature masterpiece. She’s opening and closing her wings rapidly, so I get a glimpse, then it’s closing time. Look quick before she’s gone. I tell myself to check her out in a butterfly guide later, but a photo can’t be as enchanting as the original. How does God think this stuff up?
In her poem “When Death Comes,” Mary Oliver writes, “When it’s over, I want to say: all my life/ I was a bride married to amazement.” May we all be as dazzled by the beauty in this world.
—Carol Tyx, Prairiewoods artist in residence
photo by Frank Olsen