There is a butterfly
outside the barn,
lying in the gravel.
Biff, our barn cat,
is batting at its wings.
His claws aren’t out,
his face calm,
his touch light.
When I shoo him away,
I see that it’s a swallow
tail, it’s legs all bent
and twitching.
Last summer, at a spring, 
I saw a swarm and 
spent all day watching.
Now, I touch his antenna
gently with my forefinger.
He retracts in tight,
afraid of the unknown.
I squat, knees up under
my arms, hugging them.
He has big eyes, only one
of which can watch me.
I breathe out, slowly,
and squish him 
under my thumb.
I carry him over
to the flower bed
and plant him
beneath the weeds.