I ran through butterfly colonies this morning. Are they heading south? I decided to sing louder than usual, hoping they'd hear me coming and escape my pounding feet. Maybe instead of hearing, they felt the little earthquakes emanating from the landings of my great toe joints instead of heel strikes, which Born to Run persuaded me to try to avoid.
Speaking of earthquakes, I understand we (mankind) sometimes generate earthquakes when we disturb the interior of the earth, such as when we sink holes for geothermal power. Not when we garden, I hope.
At a memorial service we attended last Sunday, one of the memorialists said she had noticed a butterfly flitting from one family member to another, a year ago when they had the funeral for family only, which reminded me of Nabakov (the author). It might be fun someday to come back as a butterfly. Please don't tread on me.
I must confess. As a kid, I caught them in nets, stuck them in a jar with a cotton ball soaked in ether, then stuck pins through them so I could admire them through the glass-tops of wooden boxes.
"What would PETA say?" asks Virginia.
Ban butterfly nets.
I suppose I'll get a few butterflies on Sunday. The Arrowhead Trio performs Hans Gal, 2:30, in a concert entitled "Trios by Trios," Unitarian Church, in downtown Lynchburg.
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
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