Death of a Butterfly

On a late autumn afternoon of beautiful sunlight
I was walking along briskly when I was abruptly stopped
by a butterfly on the roadside that I almost stepped on.
I thought at first it was resting its wings
but when I squatted and looked closely
I found it was already dead.

It must have only just died.
Its long antennae still trembled in the breeze.
Its long, slender legs were still strong enough to cling to the earth.
On its sunglass-eyes and multi-colored wings
sunlight splintered into many hues.
A dead butterfly is beautiful.
Its beautiful death itself
looked more composed than when it was alive.

The death of a butterfly brings to mind many beautiful words.
Yet words however beautiful
cannot fully explain its death.
Not out of pity, but somehow mindlessly
I carefully picked it up
and placed it on a lawn marked “No Trespassing.”
On second thought,
that, I thought, may have been the most fitting funeral for a butterfly.

I shall never forget that lawn.
in front of the first intersection of an east-west street that runs
under a steel tower of high tension lines.

DEATH OF A BUTTERFLY