Prose Poem: A Nest of Butterflies.

 

Tim Torkildson; Integrated since 1993.

I discovered a nest of butterflies

outside the city limits of Bemidji

Minnesota about a month ago.

I and my research assistant,

Abner Doublefield,

were looking for a suitable

gnat sanctuary for the new state park

when we stumbled across the nest 

in the branches of a weeping willow

next to a morose seep in a cow

pasture.

When I reported my findings to

the State Board of Butterflies

they sent me a letter refuting my

claims and disinheriting me from 

my grandfather's estate.

Even though I had photographs --

taken by my assistant,

Abner Doublefield.

But it all makes so much sense;

during windy days butterflies

cannot be airborne --

they have to have someplace to

hang their hat

figuratively speaking,

and a nest would be the natural

place to do it.

But I can't get anyone to listen to me.

Even my assistant,

Abner Doublefield,

now claims there was no

butterfly nest --

it was just a shredded 

plastic bag he took photographs of

under the duress of losing

his job if he did not back me up.

But at least the state accepted my

recommendation on the gnat sanctuary --

if there are really such things as gnats

in the first place.

How can anything so small actually have

enough intelligence and coordination to

fly? 

And what do they do on windy days?

They have no nests

and must rely on 

a higher power to protect them --

like Superman.