The sun is beginning to warm the afternoons after a long winter and bipolar spring; warm enough to take long walks or jogs to the canyon.
Part of this journey includes an old County Highway... and for a mile I jog in the shoulder gravel that is grey and sooty and lifeless.
Vehicles whip by me, and the essence of the exhaust trails behind them, but the view is beautiful and pastures of wildflowers and tame horses flank either side of the road; small farmhouses speckle the scenery.
Along this short stretch of my long jog, a small flutter of color amongst the charcoal gravel caught my eye.
A red spotted butterfly.
A dying butterfly.
I am not a butterfly physician- so my expertise doesn't extend to how or why the butterfly was dying- but I stopped and knelt to look at it laying fatigued at my feet, weakly and humbly fluttering its wings.
Ever so carefully I cupped my fingers and cradled the "sky-flower" while two or three cars flew past me and the gush of breeze tore at my hair and ponytail- but I sheltered the small insect in my hands and carried it away from the road.
Along a white fence line bordering a lush pasture- there was a cluster of dandelions in fluffy tall sweet grass.
That is where I placed the dying butterfly.
It crawled beneath them and hid from my sight.
As simple as that.
I continued on my walk.
I thought about life. I thought about other's lives.
Sometimes we can't save others from their realities. Even with the power to heal, it isn't my place to interfere upon another's life destiny.
But, I can take a dying butterfly and place her in flowers, so as she dies- it isn't upon the rocks.