Me and Dog and an orange tip butterfly meander the lanes. Dog's colours, called liver and white, make a blend and contrast pattern against blossoming hedges. Butterfly's colours, bright white, irradiated orange, dark brown body: like a concentrated version of Dog. Butterfly has traveled here from last summer, from being a globulous egg under a leaf somewhere, from being a caterpillar, from the magic soup of the chrysalis: this species, I recall, overwinters in pupae form. A whole winter, suspended, between states of being.
Orange tip butterfly hovers in my mind. I am sat in the garden, sun at my back, hair shadows flicking. The breeze is warmish, is fresh. Thoughts flux, not unusual. The way I think: a fixed thing is a finished thing: I do not want to be finished. But then I think: a whole life spent in a chrysalis state is not a whole life.