The sun was rising, making Florida a hot, sticky place. I jogged down a path, concentrating on putting one foot after the other without having a heat stroke. Passing a building, I noticed something on the red tile in front of the door. I knelt down, expecting the creature to be dead. The tiger swallowtail butterfly moved, but obviously was on her last legs. Tattered, faded, worn, she didn’t look as though she could fly away. She reminded me of a sort of warrior, having survived the ravages of nature, morphing from caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly, migrating, mating, laying her eggs, seeking nectar, avoiding predators. Now her wings were faded and torn, but she still spread them. I moved her to the safety of a nearby flowerbed, hoping she would like it there and be comfortable among the cool petals. I thought she was still beautiful and told her goodbye. The next day I stopped to see if she was still there but she was gone. Perhaps she still had one more flight in her warrior wings.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Warrior by Karen Sorce
Warrior by Karen Sorce
The sun was rising, making Florida a hot, sticky place. I jogged down a path, concentrating on putting one foot after the other without having a heat stroke. Passing a building, I noticed something on the red tile in front of the door. I knelt down, expecting the creature to be dead. The tiger swallowtail butterfly moved, but obviously was on her last legs. Tattered, faded, worn, she didn’t look as though she could fly away. She reminded me of a sort of warrior, having survived the ravages of nature, morphing from caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly, migrating, mating, laying her eggs, seeking nectar, avoiding predators. Now her wings were faded and torn, but she still spread them. I moved her to the safety of a nearby flowerbed, hoping she would like it there and be comfortable among the cool petals. I thought she was still beautiful and told her goodbye. The next day I stopped to see if she was still there but she was gone. Perhaps she still had one more flight in her warrior wings.
The sun was rising, making Florida a hot, sticky place. I jogged down a path, concentrating on putting one foot after the other without having a heat stroke. Passing a building, I noticed something on the red tile in front of the door. I knelt down, expecting the creature to be dead. The tiger swallowtail butterfly moved, but obviously was on her last legs. Tattered, faded, worn, she didn’t look as though she could fly away. She reminded me of a sort of warrior, having survived the ravages of nature, morphing from caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly, migrating, mating, laying her eggs, seeking nectar, avoiding predators. Now her wings were faded and torn, but she still spread them. I moved her to the safety of a nearby flowerbed, hoping she would like it there and be comfortable among the cool petals. I thought she was still beautiful and told her goodbye. The next day I stopped to see if she was still there but she was gone. Perhaps she still had one more flight in her warrior wings.
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