It isn’t just for wings. A long breeze turns the sea face to flutter, waving to the shoreline. The palm leaves catch the same wind and return the wave to the waves. The air swoops down from the trees to the shrubs whose long arms point to heaven in nervous flitter. Everything moves. People watching the way use their fingers to answer a hula in mimicry.
Below the glimmer the water moves in slow motion gusts and gales. Seaweed and coral sway still stuck to rock. Remembering an ancient dream of liberation to the sky with legs for walking and arms to fly. The fronds and tentacles waves to the waves, waving to the leaves and fingers they can’t see from the sea.
Butterflies waiting on twigs. Their wings in a slow clap like a disappointed audience. Two big eyes starring out each time they open to show their patterns in mirror. And flight paths randomise when wind takes them flying. Their trail a series of fleet answers to invitations.
Fallen petals flutter in spirals to the wind with it, dancing with the butterfly like old friends. Each one under the spell of a microscopic memory; butterfly’s ancestor the under sea leaf, and, fallen petal’s; the dream, to be both alive and free.