A Butterfly´s Playground
Uncurling wings, stretching antennas, the sun’s fingers peeled the last webs of silk from her threaded anchor. Blinking black eyes, an ancient playground danced inside the raven pools of her irises. She had been wrapped, cacooned, kept for seasons, waiting, dreaming, thinking of this land they called Belize. She had only heard through passing murmurs, the chitter-chatter of foreigners, the oohs and ahhs that would walk beneath her nest, her tree, her home. Living through their words, their paintings, their grunts of adoration, all the time wondering, anticipating, to step inside the playgrounds their eyes had drank.
Spreading her ebony wings, wings splattered with hot orange and splotches of parakeet yellow, she made her way over the canopy of green. Skimming past the cascading waterfalls, letting a spray of water coat her antennas, and gliding past ruins set against a hologram of mountain. So much green. From her view, it could be a plateau of broccoli – a delicious breakfast for dinosaurs. Crumbling remains of ancient worlds, where the pyramid’s peaks reached the sleeping moon.
Taking rest on a tree in the Chaa Creek, it was as though a thousand souls had hugged her before, wrapped themselves around the neck of her trunk. She brushed against the fine moss and took flight into the never-ending cloudless ocean.
Another tree caught her eye, he had a Mohawk, leg raised in the air, rejoicing in the sun. And there, furling wings and curling antennas, was Adolfo Jose Levya. He had the same orange as her, and a scatter of white on the outer ridges of his wings. He pulled out a small harmonica tucked beside his abdomen. Leaves kissed by sunlight showered down to the blanket of moss and foliage below.
They knew they had a short time to live, perhaps two days, three weeks at the most. She wrapped her antenna with his.