“These are beautiful!” my mother said, as she scanned through the photographs. The little bell tinkled, and a rush of cool air followed us outside before it faded into the muggy heat. Shot after perfectly-framed shot slipped out of the envelope and into her hand. The sleeve was labeled “July 18 – Danaus eresimus”. She held a photograph up. “Now how on earth did you get this one?” It was a perfectly centered portrait shot of the old, charmingly rusted spigot in the garden. Perched above it was the butterfly, a lightly spotted little thing with wings the smoky, sienna color of aviators. Danaus eresimus. The Soldier. Two to three inch wingspan. Slow-flighted and easy to approach. “Got lucky, I guess,” I said, shrugging. I returned to my sandwich as she continued flipping through them, marveling at the impossible close-ups and perfect poses.
