August 1, 2020 Header

This butterfly was face down in the water on the glassy tide. I scooped it up. Let it dry on my finger. It batted its wings and and was back in the drink. Scooped it again and held it in my cupped hands. I blew on it. We hung out. It made a break for the shore. It flew toward shore beyond my aging vision. I like to think critter made it safely somewhere good.

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