I like to think of that first moment of crossing, when the female squeezes into the ostiole, shedding her wings. The wings, almost invisible, are left to scatter at the foot of the tree or nestle inside among the fig flowers. I like to think these wings are still able to flutter and fly and frolic in the form of a parrot or cuckoo or sweets-loving oriole. I don’t worry the crunch; I celebrate the flight.
