A look outside the window this morning revealed no less than three large orange and black butterflies fluttering by, recalling long ago legends of lepidopteran migration,
tales heard at my father's knee, of millions of monarchs winging their way south to the remote forests of Mexico for the winter.
A bit late in the year, I'd say, for creatures so frail to embark on such an epic journey.
Left behind to die, I suppose.
Still, I think, first frost is yet a few weeks distant.
Perhaps these three are simply late bloomers, like the last of the zinnias and lantana, pausing here for a spot of nectar before continuing a southward journey begun days or weeks ago somewhere up north.
These are monarchs, after all.
The flyers of legend.
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