I watched a black swallowtail butterfly flying about a back yard as I was trimming shrubs one day this week.
The butterfly was in the last days of its life, its wings were tattered and much of the powder on the wings was gone but it flew about the backyard, hitting every flower to gain whatever nectar it could to stay alive.
The butterfly landed on a leaf right next to me and allowed me a peek at its wings and body.
The large bibulous compound eyes trying desperately to focus on me and its long curled-up tongue was obviously worn out from a life of drawing nectar. Still the butterfly flew about the yard apparently content with its fate.
Today, tomorrow it would become a feast for a bird or simply exhausted it would succumb to the elements and become part of the earth’s past history.
In a yard of beautiful shrubbery and flowers it was the butterfly that caught my attention. As a kid I would chase the butterflies across the neighborhood with a net my mother made for me out of a pillow case and a coat hanger attached to a broom stick.
What fond memories filtered back as I continued to watch the butterfly move from flower to flower.
As time moves on the sand in each of our hourglasses move slowly but ever so steadily through leaving less and less behind as it trickles through. The butterfly’s sand was running low and each day you and I have less and less left on the top side of our hourglass.
The butterfly seemed content and ready to accept the fate that lay ahead. The sand in my hour glass seems to be running through at a rapid pace the older I get. The days of my childhood are but a distant memory.