to just flutter by

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Tiger swallowtail

Also, this time of the year, the tiger swallowtails start to look somewhat ragged. Scales thin, wings tattered, yellow faded. Such delicate creatures. Tissue paper origami braving the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. The rain. The sun. The hungry jays.

My God, what a scant existence.

But, yet, to be a butterfly for a week or even two, from blossom to blossom, sweet joy to sweet joy. Such pleasure. Such freedom. 

"Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away."

So, in the end, isn't all life fleeting on this rocky planet four billion years old? At least the happy moments, fleeting? The moments of pure, fervent joy? The moments we feel truly alive? So few and far between. So hard to hold onto, as vaporous as a flutter-bys life.
 
Isn't it all of life just a flutter-by?

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