Warm skin

My skin is warm from the sun, but my heart is cold. I have no sympathy for a butterfly that has lost its flight. I look at her as a curious magpie ready to strike. I lift my foot to puncture her wings. She slips for a second on my booted toe and begins to soar. For a moment I'm jealous of her ability to get back up, but she lands on my thigh. She bows down to me for not hurting her, her papered wings beating restlessly against the rays of the sun. How wrong I was to think she'd crash and burn. My heart has warmed and is melting on the insides. I'm alive again.

One humble act of gratitude has made me cry.