The transformation for the caterpillar must be such an odd experience from the inside, a sort of confusing birth until it emerges with some biological comprehension of what it has become. At one time all it could do was crawl, then at once it is to fly on sequinned wings.
The caterpillar has been so very hungry, for the plant has given nearly all it has to the cause. It will bounce back next spring, grow more leaves to feed the next generation who must grow before they fly, yet for now it requires rest. The caterpillar with its positively healthy glow of vibrant stripes is ready to transform, to become what it never dreamed it could be, to grow wings as gay as any summer flower and take to the sky where it belongs.
There is something hypnotically mellow about the caterpillar, how he moves in serendipitous confidence from one leaf to another. He brings me this moment, a baby pocket of joy, and in my inner eye I see him as a butterfly, his wonderful future that is yet to unfold.
The caterpillar moves as the most gentle of concertinas, shortening and expanding to the music of wind in the grass. She is stripped in black and yellow, made safer by standing out than blending in.
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