Butterflies

They are airy, light, flitting and hurried, like leaves of pure yellow driven by the early Autumn wind. Though, there is no wind on this day of thick humidity. The air hangs heavy and slow, fragrant with recent rain from clouds drifting, still close by, their rumbling thunder yet sounding in soft peels. The sun seems tired and heavy, but still is smiling pools of thinning light across the wet ground. All is still. Except those light and fidgety flyers. They hover and play among the leaves of the pecan tree and skim above the soybeans, as if laughing to each other, perhaps laughing at me.

They know of things I do not, but they lend their secrets. No one of them will fall or fail but He knows of it. They would laughingly remind of the worth of one worthless human soul- one floundering, or flying, or drowning. They recall to mind the fleeing days of summer, light, youth, harmony, freedom. They recall and refresh and renew, if only in memory. Not one will fail but He knows of it.

Through the stifle of an early southern September, they laugh because they know of things to come. And, there it is, (I laugh with them now): the cool breath of an evening breeze, a stirring, even as the cicadas sing, of the freshness of a coming Fall. Coming slowly, sneaking, breathing out a new season, of weather and of men.

Bright yellow messengers, you are ever most welcome here!

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