Flutterbys, she used to think they were called, when she was small. A dusky-pink and ivory Harvester, wings spread like a delicate hand-painted fan, alights on the branch of a common hawthorn. The branches drip fragrant cottony blossoms.
She sits on a wooden park bench. The silken petals and their perfume attract bees and little girls alike.
Mm, smell it!
Let’s put some in our hair.
Let’s make necklaces out of them.
I’m going to make a crown. I’m the queen.
Her eyes are accustomed to skittering away but they devour these children, with their grass-stained shorts and brown scabby knees and gap-toothed smiles and tangled hair that the breeze catches and flings toward the sky.
The warm nuzzle at the tight breast, the crystal tinkle of laughter against her ear, the damp warm hand clasped within hers.
The Harvester lays vertical wings horizontal and glides up, up, spiraling into a faint speck against the constant sun.
Grey Sparrow Journal 