Where the stories are

I’d been at a café trying to draft three posts. Why wasn’t the inspiration flowing? I trudged home, wondering where the stories are.

When I arrived, a swallowtail butterfly was at my door—electric blue and recently born. She ambled across my doormat. Bemused, I knelt down to see her closely. She took off, floated around me, then alighted on a camellia.

I followed her through the garden; she kept returning to my doorstep. I’d go inside, wilting from the heat, but each time I checked, she was still outside. Finally I sat and watched her unfurl her proboscis. She was looking for sweetness.