It takes a few days before you realize what it is, that familiar feeling of something sweet but ethereal in the air. It's not the bleating of the sheep, or the tangle in the hedgerows. It's the butterflies. Red admirals lining the warm roads, tortoiseshells in the flowers and little white ones following us around in the afernoons. I spent a whole childhood with butterflies and now where have they gone?
A little voice whispers that it's not they who have gone, but I. That's the truth, of course, but I don't know what to make of it. It's Friday, the world has caught up to me, and I don't know what to make of anything. A kind delivery driver arrives with wine and strawberries and coffee, I've forgotten to add milk to the list but no matter. Tomorrow I will bike to the next village over, see what they may have to offer.
I'm getting the insights for free.
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