She stood still as the rock, still as the trees. Her body became just another landing strip for the monarchs seeking a resting spot. Her head, her shoulders, her arms, her legs, her hiking boots all swam orange and black. The feet of butterflies on her bare arms felt like wind disturbing her hair. She raised her arms and watched herself transform into butterfly. Her nose, her cheeks; they too twitched with butterfly life, butterfly legs, butterfly wind.
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “butterfly.”
Note: I just stumbled in this, written in 1995, long before Barbara Kingsolver made me think such thoughts again in “Flight Behavior.”