I.
The last butterfly does not know he is the last; his final chapter upon him.
He stands rigid on his long skinny legs at the edge of the deck chair outside my window where sun's rays of autumn, amplified by window's reflection, radiate down around him.
It is a risk to be found here by the birds that hunt this yard,
but then again his time is short and if he worried his worries would be great and all for not.
Holding firmly against the breeze, his black wings close vertically like a thin book standing on its edge; occasionally, he lowers them as if to gather more of the sun's energy upon them.
But as breezes will, its breath catches his paper thinness and vibrations nearly force him from his perch where he must steady and brace himself like a drunk placing a hurried step to catch balance.
Closing his wings he regains his hold and calms himself once more.
II.
Each night for many days the temperature has dipped to freezing; the yard is marked by strewn leaves -- each a page from history, as summer's growth becomes falls' descent, quickening towards its climax.
Birds are practising their flights for home and few insects remain; still, here a story continues as this beautiful creature refuses to yield; to capitulate and close the book on its small life.
He knows nothing of biology or weather systems, nor the tilting of the earth; he knows nothing of the planets and the stars, nor does he reflect on his existence.
Nevertheless as long as the sun shines down he only knows he must persist, pushed on by something in his nature, something that tells him he exists.
III.
When later I return, with sadness I see he is gone; perhaps devoured by a hungry bird or blown away by a gust, I do not know;
I only know that his story is one of survival and, if still breathing, he perseveres against unknown odds, not yet prepared to fold his wings one last time and close the book on his last chapter.
~gtk