Butterfly

From the corner of my eye, a butterfly floats in my window. As she drifts past my view her iridescent jade, indigo, and ochre wings instantly mesmerize me. She is so beautiful, so delicate, as she dances on the currents in my room.

I instantly want to reach up and take her. I want to study her, to know her, to make her mine.

No. She is for another butterfly; she is not for me. I will only stain her wings.

Wanting to keep her near, I speak. “Where did you come from?” I ask. “From across the water,” she replies, and languidly begins to circle my head.

Delighted, I continue.

“Which water? The ocean, or a lake?” “I do not know,” she answers. “The water.”

“Surely you must know the difference," I say, and I notice a barely perceptible twitch of her antennae. “Water is water,” she responds, in a mildly dismissive manner.

“It must be nice to be so whimsical and free," I say.

Suddenly annoyed with my ignorance, she whirls away. “What do you know of a butterfly? My mind is continually occupied, analyzing the world and planning my future. I have no time for your questions or your speculations.”

Pondering this for a moment, I concede her point. “Forgive me. I am indeed ignorant of a butterfly’s mind. I hope I have not angered you.”

As she speaks again, I hear a smile in her voice.

"It is nothing," she calls back, as she gently sails out my window and into the world again.

I stand at the windowsill and watch her flutter away, hoping that she will return again.