I rode through a field of butterflies!
With my bike I passed them.
Startled, they alighted behind me
buttering the air with their wings
They parried and thrusted, concentricly
twirling around each other.
I was entranced in the middle of them.
Dipping and extending, sailing right, then swerving left.
Mementarily I was given a still display from a tree
Of wings more detailed than the grandest painting.
Then aloft again to play.
Like the flies I have so haphazardly brushed away
They flew. Without pattern or plan.
But this butterfly brigade, so fragile in my space
is the creators ballet bug, a papenstance* of grace.
four, seven, nine.
They lined up before me,
all facing Northeast.
eighteen buttefly eyes awaiting oration.
With no words from the learned biped
they all allighted.
All but one. Lined up center.
We surveyed eachother
the insect and I. And then
returned to play.

*Papenstance: a purposeful accident