This morning I’m walking in the prairie just beyond the gardens, when suddenly, amazingly, around the bend I stumble into a village of monarchs. Hundreds of them, everywhere in this field of white flowers just opening—and you get the sense this is a Grand Opening—a big party, an orgy, monarchs fluttering from flower to flower, a sip here, a nip there—kind of like bar hopping monarch style.
One wafts right by me, the deep orange wings glowing in the sunlight like a blazing ember, then folding up as she settles in for a drink, suddenly so slender that head-on you might mistake her for a stem or a straw. From the side, of course, it’s a totally different view, the stained-glass effect, orange veined with black, and then to top it off, that precisely edged black and white border.
I’ve only seen so many butterflies once before, at the National Butterfly Center in Mission, Texas (the butterfly haven that would be cut off if that section of the wall gets built). But right now, right here in Iowa it’s butterfly central: feasting, floating, fluttering, freewheeling.
I could spend the whole morning here, until I hear my inner lunch call. As I veer away from the village, six monarchs make a twizzled line above my head, then disappear into the woods. The last show, I think, and then I see the shadow of one set of wings and look up: a single monarch, weaving in and out of my wending as if to say what I am thinking, Oh for one more glimpse of this breath-taking beauty.
—Carol Tyx, Prairiewoods artist in residence