The butterflies hang still like discarded paper bags. But then the wind shifts. The bags open and out pop a thousand orange wings. They are out of reach. When you get home, back where tule fog lingers, where the only ocean is the tousle of dried corn, you want to recreate that moment. You drape scarves from your rooftop. Wait for the perfect unfurling. You look up for hours. Your neck is sore. Your scarves are thick with fog. And then: a single butterfly, orange and translucent, perches on your windowsill. No pops, no pizzazz; wings brush glass. You unfurl.
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