Chasing Butterflies

It was one of those lazy summer days, where the past didn't matter and the future stretched off into an ill-defined haziness of endless opportunities. A day where the heat, rather than oppress you, gently descended from an impossibly blue sky and enfolded you in its warm arms, comforting, soothing, a mother's embrace. The surf sighed across the sand with a quiet, sibilant hiss as a soft breeze blew straight off the Lake, a zephyr tugging softly at your hair, whispering in your ear like a seductive lover.

Monarchs flitted and floated on that breeze in lazy loops, now swooping here and there, now rising majestically in an impossible choreography. The air itself in motion, riding invisible currents as they went about the important business of butterflies, forever beyond reach but just right there, close enough to touch. Just one good leap, one good push off the shifting sands beneath your feet, and you would be there with them, soaring through their ethereal domain.

Chasing butterflies at the water's edge, an intricate dance of pure innocence in motion, a leap of faith and joy untainted and existing only for itself, only for that moment. Leaping, twisting, bounding across the sand, a yip of excitement and delight, a snort of puzzlement and wonder. The dance goes on, each partner now leading, now following, neither one hearing the music but living it, creating it as they move across the floor to the lilting, eternal notes.

A perfect moment in time, forever lost to description, a thing that can't be told but only experienced. Bodies in motion, uncomplicated by expectation or self, with no meaning other than not everything has to have a meaning. Just a pure soul, at peace with itself, chasing butterflies.