This means, incredibly, that no individual monarch experiences the species’ entire life cycle. The butterfly I saw dancing through traffic in Minnesota was likely third generation: her grandparents had gone to Mexico and her offspring would as well, but she would never lay her compound eyes on monarch Valhalla herself. I found something poignant in that—this poor parochial butterfly churning out caterpillars in her corner of the Midwest, her existence brief and utilitarian, living in service to her glamorous, adventurous children.
