A Swallowtail In Evening

Out my window I see a pair of wings, thumping against the glass.

Black and yellow, thin and fast, I move as delicate as I can but she dashes away, leaving me standing and alone.

I am harkened back to 1786: The Cult of the Priapus sends me “the image of the heavenly soul breaking the bonds of the material world in order to melt again” like a flume erupting from an uncorked bottle.

I reach my fingers out, and brush the air; it is only a little wonder, but I drink my fill. Time presses his hands upon my shoulders, having me take root. For a moment I exist without a beginning, without an end. A gift, I suppose, for taking the opportunity to look.

I grow impatient, turn to grab my book.

There in the light a shadow dancing, pulling darkness up and down. The window again; ah, as these things go, I have missed it. I know in my heart she will not come any more.

It is a terrible truth, yet I smile. There is scant room for regret. Hu die visited me for awhile. A portrait in my memory, shelved.

I shall not mull upon the knowing that its accuracy will probably not last the night.

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