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takethisforexample"Sinead,"
My bare feet hit against the shiny rubber tiles of the longest hallway in Kelley's Island School as I try to catch up. At the end, Sinead is looking back and laughing at the sight of me with my soaking wet Converse and bug net in clutch.
"Hurry up! You're going to miss it," she ushers. Although it was just raining, a golden light floods through the open doors. When I reach the end, Sinead takes my hand and pulls me towards a white butterfly bush in a mess of overgrown native Ohioan plants. She hones in on a single bloom where a Monarch butterfly is airing its wings.
"That's the one we tagged yesterday. It's Queenie."
She was right, I recognized this one. When we caught her, the left hindwing was mostly missing, and the left forewing was ripped into a rough, unrecognizable shape. Her colors were muted, a sign of senescence in her species.
She grapples weakly to my fingers as I observe her now. She does not have long left.
During late July, the 3rd generation of Southwestern migrating Monarchs pass over the finger lakes. Many rejoice on Kelley's Island to feed, rest, and foster the next generation to continue the species' annual cycle across North America in autumn. However, death nears in early August for these 3rd generation individuals who, after mating, have nothing to do but await their timely passing. Many are too weak to leave the island.
The heavily damaged butterfly takes her final sips of nectar in front of us. She has travelled hundreds of miles and persisted through unthinkable conditions, only to be met with these listless final days. Her ripped wings are something that humans can understand as a symbol of the daunting journey her species endures, but to her, it means nothing. She must die without knowing her purpose, just as nature intended.
"It's kinda sad, isn't it? She's going to die soon."
"That's the circle of life, though."
"Yeah, I guess." I rest my net down. Sinead has a huge smile on her face, but I can't say the same anymore.
I struggle to assume the emotional implications of the Monarch butterfly. One day, perhaps even in my lifetime, the species will cease to exist. A butterfly knows nothing of fate. Not the one nature gifted it nor the one that man has imposed. And a butterfly knows nothing of death, logging, pollution, extinction... But in the evening light of some long forgotten August, Queenie's faded wings look newly emerged.
My bare feet hit against the shiny rubber tiles of the longest hallway in Kelley's Island School as I try to catch up. At the end, Sinead is looking back and laughing at the sight of me with my soaking wet Converse and bug net in clutch.
"Hurry up! You're going to miss it," she ushers. Although it was just raining, a golden light floods through the open doors. When I reach the end, Sinead takes my hand and pulls me towards a white butterfly bush in a mess of overgrown native Ohioan plants. She hones in on a single bloom where a Monarch butterfly is airing its wings.
"That's the one we tagged yesterday. It's Queenie."
She was right, I recognized this one. When we caught her, the left hindwing was mostly missing, and the left forewing was ripped into a rough, unrecognizable shape. Her colors were muted, a sign of senescence in her species.
She grapples weakly to my fingers as I observe her now. She does not have long left.
During late July, the 3rd generation of Southwestern migrating Monarchs pass over the finger lakes. Many rejoice on Kelley's Island to feed, rest, and foster the next generation to continue the species' annual cycle across North America in autumn. However, death nears in early August for these 3rd generation individuals who, after mating, have nothing to do but await their timely passing. Many are too weak to leave the island.
The heavily damaged butterfly takes her final sips of nectar in front of us. She has travelled hundreds of miles and persisted through unthinkable conditions, only to be met with these listless final days. Her ripped wings are something that humans can understand as a symbol of the daunting journey her species endures, but to her, it means nothing. She must die without knowing her purpose, just as nature intended.
"It's kinda sad, isn't it? She's going to die soon."
"That's the circle of life, though."
"Yeah, I guess." I rest my net down. Sinead has a huge smile on her face, but I can't say the same anymore.
I struggle to assume the emotional implications of the Monarch butterfly. One day, perhaps even in my lifetime, the species will cease to exist. A butterfly knows nothing of fate. Not the one nature gifted it nor the one that man has imposed. And a butterfly knows nothing of death, logging, pollution, extinction... But in the evening light of some long forgotten August, Queenie's faded wings look newly emerged.
