Butterflies

When I did my bug project in high school, I decided I didn't like butterflies anymore. After I caught the winged creatures, let them sit in my kill jar, and proceeded to pin and dry them, I discovered their eyes were bulging and pretty ugly up close. Since then, I just really haven't been a fan. Then today as I was watching M. and E. play outside, one flew by. The orange butterfly darted among the flowers, spending just enough time to stick it's hair-like proboscis into the flowers, reminding me briefly about the Magic School Bus lessons about nectar and pollination. Its paper-thin wings swooped up and down as it landed (can you use to word "swoop" when the object described is but a few inches long?), then fluttered quickly when it took off to the sky again.

Delicate, rhythmic, focused. I want to describe the movement of its wings as "crisp", which is also my favorite adjective for autumn weather. I'm laughing a little to myself that for the past six years, I haven't liked butterflies because of the bug-eyed observation I made in freshmen biology. And the fact that at twenty-three years of age, it's okay to consciously change my mind back.