Black Butterfly, Blue Feather

The other night, Kona and I were sitting on the front porch when a black swallowtail butterfly flew toward me. I was amazed, it was so huge: as large as the palm of my hand and I wondered will it come to me? And wouldn't that be cool, especially if it landed on my hand?

I watched it flutter toward me. I held out my hand and held my breath.

Now many people think butterflies are spiritual signs, though I'm not particularly in that crowd. Still, it was an incredible sight. And could it be a sign from above? From Bob? How wonderful would that be.

Then it suddenly flew up, right into the rotating ceiling fan blades and fell with an audible plop to the ground.

The injured butterfly flopped across the tile porch floor, one wing dangling. 

I didn't know what to do. I'm no butterfly doctor. I watched it make its way slowly, clumsily, limping, dragging its broken wing and ultimately falling off the edge of the porch into some ferns. 

I got up, softly crept to the edge and peered down.

The swallowtail was beautiful, even in death. Black with an orange/yellow pattern on the edge of its wings. It was spread out like a specimen pinned to a board in a classroom. A huge chunk was missing from one of its wings. I gently touched a fern leaf near it and it quivered. It was still alive. But what on earth could I do?

I sat down, feeling awful. Trying not to think about it.

Then I saw it. It was in the front yard. It flew up a few inches and fell back down. It flew up again, a sort of drunken spiralling flight, and fell back down. It did this several times, inching toward the fence. It somehow managed to get to the boulevard where it suddenly lifted into the air, nearly two feet up, then fell like a tornado twirling to the ground. Again it tried, and this time it landed in the middle of the street.

I sprang up. In the middle of road, it was prey to cars and neighbour cats and birds. The least I could do is try to catch it and bring it back to safer location. Half way down the sidewalk, the butterfly flew up and drunkenly made its way, a sort of loop de loop flight, over to the neighbours' house.

I stood there watching it, thinking, Bob, if this was a sign from you, it was not a nice one as that poor thing got clobbered and will probably die.

Just then, from nowhere, a single blue feather wafted through the air and landed at my feet. I picked it up. Looked over at the neighbour's yard, didn't see the swallowtail.

The next day, I was working at my desk and a movement at my window caught my attention.

A black swallowtail butterfly had landed on the flowers in my window box. I got up and took a closer look. It had a chunk taken out of its wing. It quivered there for a moment, then flew off, gently landing on a nearby ixora bush. I watched it, flitting from flower to flower, until it took off, perfectly flying away into the distance.