
The rumbling of thunder shakes the ground.
A badly needed rain is upon us.
Through the window, the trees sway— heavy leaves waving graceful arcs against the white sky.
Beyond them, the field of butterflies.
I pull a book from my shelf, a favorite from years ago, perhaps when it all began.
Of blue butterflies scattered across spatter-painted pages.
And rain, again.

I followed one yesterday, an Eastern Tailed Blue, until it came to rest on a low leaf in the field of goldenrod. Her gossamer wings and dainty tail shone bright in the evening sun.
How I love the blues of summer.
The tender flowers that hide from the heat of the day in shades so inviting and cool.
And the blues of the butterflies—caught for a rare moment, then held coyly behind folded wings.
As pieces of sky, to earth fallen.
Still the question lingers from the painted page before me, so simple, yet long lasting.
"Where does the butterfly go when it rains?"
From Wikipedia:
Where does the butterfly go when it rains by May Garelick, illus. Leonard Weisgard, Young Scott Books, New York, 1961.















