The rustle of butterflies, the flutter of pages…is there any difference?  Words and wings, all captured in the net of memory, wafting great distances of the slightest puff of a breeze.

As you read, does a tiny butterfly rise up, freed from its slumber by your imagination?  Or is it your imagination that slumbers, not quite ready to emerge?

If you whisper to the butterfly, something is sure to begin….