mariposa

You're sitting on a warm bench in an isolated garden at the edge of town, a garden that seems so empty it could be an abyss until this butterfly catches your attention.

One thing about this creature is the mode of its flight, recombined on itself in stop-time at complementary angles as though G-d were cutting and pasting sloppy animation. Then you notice the colors, the black circles that decorate the tips of its wings. The form of its abdomen.

Its flight path's lit by a green ray of spring. Where could it want to fly, only recently drunk on dew or pollen, now with its back to you, intent on a flower.

And if it disappears beyond the wall (because it's a small garden or through excess speed), make a mental picture. Trace its path along the green ray, where it stretches to the horizon. Or picture where it and the ray diverge paths; now the ray proceeds forever and the butterfly could be anywhere, you'll never find it. Maybe it'll flicker back or leave you here, in this garden at the edge of town, at the edge of the known world.

(for/at/from Nicanor Parra)