The Butterfly
April watched the butterfly flit from flower to flower. It did not move in a straight line like the bees that her daddy kept in the hive in the back yard.
It didn’t swoop like the mockingbird that chased every other bird from what he considered HIS yard. No. It flitted. Up. Down. Side. Float. Dip. April loved watching. She watched and remembered so that on her bed at night
when she closed her eyes she could bring back the sights from the daytime. It was her nighttime garden behind her closed eyes.
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