Here–there is some peace by the sea, and in the small garden of fruit trees. Where in late August I sit and watch the butterflies work within the leaves and branches, around the attached apples. It’s work for the butterflies. But their fluttering and swirling looks like dancing. One settles on an apple, then lifts, and flies directly to me. It lands on my white shirt, its red-tipped, black wings opening and closing. One day I watched for hours. They don’t go to the sea, and they don’t go to the village. In the evening they find someplace here to sleep. I know this because the next morning I see them again, circling in the new sun, while the visitors still sleep or have just gotten up, to nibble on last night’s bread and cold meats, heat up water for tea, and prepare pastries for breakfast.
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