The butterfly was not a butterfly but two fallen leaves.
I had been seeing butterflies a lot lately, and so I thought this was yet another encounter.
Recently my local Cooperative Extension made an announcement on Facebook that there was an uptick in the insects’ numbers in the Las Vegas area. Now I wish I had read it.
I wondered if it had something to do with climate change, although the Extension had an optimistic tone in sharing the news.
The ones that I seemed to see most often were brownish, which were a little dull.
But overall, it is spring, so their presence is appreciated. It is a quintessential thing to see a butterfly this time of year, let alone multiple whenever I am out and about.
Speaking of sightings, this morning I spotted tiny bird feathers speckling the sidewalk as I made my way to a bus stop. I thought someone must have torn their down jacket. But then I came across a dead pigeon by a lamppost. It looked tattered, like it had been attacked or perhaps killed by a car. There was no blood on its ivory and beige feathers, though. An X-File death.
I was near a park that same day trying to take a selfie in my Army jacket when a man pedaling briskly on a bicycle shouted at me to step aside so he can pass. The thing is, he was on the pedestrian path and should have been in the bike lane on the street. I was quite appalled. Then a boy (I’m guessing it was the man’s son) also pedaled by me, giving me a dirty look.
As a child in the Bronx, I would catch the butterflies that landed in our yard. They were as abundant as the tomatoes and basil grown by my grandmother in the garden beds.
The butterflies were white, sometimes with a black spot or two, and I remember the powdery residue on my index finger and thumb from their wings after I turned my captives loose.
They would continue their erratic flight.
I’ve been thinking lately that I want life to be simple again — soft as down pillows. No more crazy edges.