Swallowtail Summertime

For months now, in our part of North Carolina, a breath of fresh air has been rare as the heat and humidity snuffed it out. Midweek and midday finds me sweating through my office clothes as I go from car to building to car. The weekend arrives and pants become shorts, shoes become barefeet, and time spent in an office becomes time spent in the shade of a sycamore tree overhanging the Eno River.

Between the shady weekends, how is one to find relief?

This summer I have found inspiration by watching the butterflies. They whirl across an open sunny field in search of succulence. With awkward grace, they alight above the canopy, drying their delicate wings in the blaze of afternoon warmth. They are beautiful and full of life. But why do they spend so much time in this sun that we are trying to avoid? I'm sure science can convincingly explain the relationships between sun and butterfly. I'm sure we can guess many of those reasons correctly. But I'm going to offer a simple reason that I hope, rather than know, is true: Butterflies spend all this time in the sun because, as winged beings, time is short and they want a clear view of the world in which they live.

This summer I've seen more butterflies than times past. I don't know if it is me or them, but whatever the reason, I'm glad we've crossed paths so frequently. I'll admit I'm looking ahead to fall, but I'll fondly recall this swallowtail summertime, when stained glass heartbeats captured my attention, made my baby boy point and smile, and reminded me to embrace even the sun scorched moments.

Even While We Whisper

We had a view of the Chesapeake Bay for a whole weekend.
Sitting on the dock, you experience the weather moving over the Bay like you would feel the weather over an Oklahoma wheat field. Rain in the distance rolls in as an advancing fog. The wind pushes the water towards the land. Like horses running for the stables, the sailboats drop sail and briskly motor on home.

An expanse of water and land reward the keen eye with abounding treasures. A fluttering speck on the horizon, just at treeline, flies near to become a whistling Osprey carrying a fresh catch tight in his talons.
The still water bursts into a boil in the distance as a thrashing school of menhaden escape the current and swirl ahead of a gang of hungry striped bass. If you're paying attention, now is the time to cast your line and take advantage of the marine madness. The old slate heron watches from the shadows, slowly nodding approval.

The sun, moon, and sky preen in virtuous vanity above the reflective bay. We gather on the shore to admire their beauty. Even while we whisper our respects, our awe carries to the far shore. Our presence becomes part of the scene. May the Bay, in its benevolent way, forever stay.