Existential Butterfly

I spied with my little eye a butterfly. 

A beautiful cyan blue, with black markings, it floated from flower to flower, immune to the danger that surrounded it on all sides. It seemed like a free agent in this inevitable and seemingly meaningless universe. It was silent while dancing, finally capturing that summer breeze and using it to its advantage. This was a creature of action, not words. As it played hopscotch on petals, I knew it knew. It alone was responsible for its experience. It picked each pretty flower, always true to itself and the nature of being a butterfly.

            I tried to catch it softly, cupping my hand beneath each flower where it rested. It simply fluttered away, aware but immune. So I tried to snatch it from its place, but it won the race and floated off to another flower. It lingered no matter what I did. It only seemed interested in acquiring each bloom. I looked at the creature, with great pause, studying it like a vision or sweet consequence. Then defeat came as it flew out of reach, whispering that "enough was enough."

            I sat down on the grassy hill and looked into the sun. My eyelids burnt a little, like the dried but once green patch beneath my hands. I wondered to myself how that insect knew. How could such a small thing recognize anything outside its own existence?  Did it really see me or hear me? Was it only chance that moved it away? Eventually, I forgot about that little blue fairy and I went on with my contemplation. Just in that moment, another butterfly landed on my leg.