On the Fringe of Fall

It's in the air, no doubt about it. There are leaves turning, and the last of our tomatoes ripening ruby red. Butterflies are a flurry; they seem to be frantic, and are not afraid to flyin one's face. But, I don't mind. After all, they are monarchs. Saved a very small yellow butterfly, with orange markings and black spots. I'm reminded of the black spider with a yellow spot we spied building her web on our school's fence. We were seven, and my friend Sharon and I named her Charlotte, and watched her everyday. I used to keep pet caterpillars and grasshoppers then, but only for a day. I made lovley glass houses for them, lined in leaves, with a twig to rest on, and little pillboxes of water for them to drink, if drink they did. I also kept holes in the lids, so they could breathe. Then, after a few hours, I let them go, carefully, where no one would squash them or bother them.

I get more and more squeamish and reluctant to step on insects, or to kill them. Pests they may be, I know, but they are miraculous little animals all the same. And, they are beautiful, and their lives are short enough without me blundering on them. Maybe we should all read/reread Charlotte's Web and watch A Bug's Life!