As if already sensing time’s inevitable descent into winter, a diminutive butterfly flitted nervously amongst the remaining flowers blooming at the water’s edge. The pale yellow wings would momentarily turn to a brilliant white whenever the sun discovered a sliver in the expanse of gray which had been cast over the day. The butterfly moved from flower to flower haphazardly, unable or unwilling to select a perch as it found itself tossed toylike by the afternoon wind.
Her forefingers traced circles into her temples—if only I could bore holes into here; she thought, from behind closed eyes.
The colorless flowers languished tiredly along the bank. Drooping slightly from bowed stems, the long months of long days spent reaching towards the sky with yearning blossoms had brought them to an exhaustion. An end to it felt nearby, as the brisk wind provided the flowers hope for a finality, the crisp promise of demise.
It having chosen a friend or conceding its fate, the butterfly alighted upon a suitable bloom. It remained there, exercising its wings slowly, opening and closing them as if each movement spurred pain, until all became still at last.
Her forefingers slid onto her face to meet their siblings as she began to slowly grind the palms of her hands into the sockets of her eyes—if only I could drive them out of here; she thought, from where her thoughts steadfastly remained. Forever bedeviling, forever churning, her ruminations forever refusing to lighten just enough to be caught and sent aloft by this imperviously disinterested wind.