From here I can see the green iridescence of the hairs on its body and the hooked, silvery spot
on its wing for which the Comma is named. It’s a perfect shot, but as I’m about to press the shutter,
the Comma takes flight and settles down a few yards behind me, apparently bored with the fare at
its previous location. Slowly, smoothly, I return to my feet and try again. We repeat this dance five
or six times before I manage to get a shot, at which point I take twenty or thirty photos in the hopes
that one or two will be both well-composed and in focus.
When I finish shooting, I stay and watch for a minute, astonished to be so close to this creature that is so decidedly different from me yet so insistently real. In taking its photograph, I have
seen this butterfly, not a type in a field guide or a cartoon on a hand towel. Moreover, I have appreciated the butterfly for what it is and on its own terms. If my photos turn out, it will be the Comma
that has won, not me, for I have surrendered myself to it so completely that I’m only now realizing
how I must look to anyone else coming over the hill as I lie stretched out on my stomach like a caterpillar or a worm. Later, when I find myself caught up in the minutiae of everyday life, I will remember this moment and that sometimes the most important thing is simply to be here, to see a butterfly.
So grab your camera. Find a meadow, a woodland clearing, or a roadside planted with goldenrod. Open your eyes. Feel the sun on your cheeks, your arms, your scalp; smell the grass and clover.
What will it be? A hairstreak, a fritillary, a blue? Wait and see.
Common Blue Butterfly by Axel Peterman
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