For most, a typical response to a tray of specimens can be a ranking in order of beauty. This because, what else? Butterflies and moths cause no marked aversion; they do not sting or make terrible pests. We do not eat them.
What, then? Initially, we have no other means, beyond the appeal of their colors, to appreciate them.
In North America, there are more species of butterfly on the endangered list than any other insect. Not everyone gets field experience, so look.
Why are the wings so large? They speak with them.
Consider these canvases, painted differently on each side, according to audience.
Where are the moths in daytime? In the day, they become tree bark, lichen, twigs.
Consider one hundred caterpillars, wrapped or naked; cylindrical or bulging, immaculate or marked. See the chrysalis, head down, unclothed, posing as a leaf.
Some ride mice to safety, to lay eggs in an underground den.
One makes no sound, but what about a chorus of millions?
Patience now. A more complete discussion will be possible after secrets are revealed.
This morning’s post is assembled from found phrases in the opening chapter of 100 Butterflies and Moths: Portraits From the Tropical Forests of Costa Rica, by Jeffrey C. Miller, Daniel H. Janzen, and Winifred Hallwachs. I came across it in the used bookstore adjacent to the library in the year before the pandemic, and was taken by the color images. It seemed like the sort of book to keep on hand for future inspiration. Waking especially groggily this Wednesday morning, I pulled it from the shelf to see what I could find.
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