All the biggest and most extravagant butterflies I’ve seen have been those startled from dung or mud. I write now from a riverside perch in the Smoky Mountains where I’ve taken off my shoes to have lunch.

This morning I awoke to car doors closing and people excitedly chatting about the weather. It was 6:30AM and about 50F (so many emojis and still no “degrees” character), and I was grateful to have tucked myself into bed around dusk the night before. I hadn’t posted up in a busy area, but people get real stoked at national parks and I don’t blame ‘em. Happy strangers are not the worst alarm clock.

My first hike, to Laurel Falls, was brief but busy. I knew that it was popular—paved and short—and even arriving at 8 was kind of late. On the way back from the falls I heard Chinese and managed to say “good morning” in Mandarin. Were these two ever delighted! We walked the last half mile or so together, chatting (in English) about life in Asia vs here. It was hard to say goodbye at the crowded parking lot! People were lining up for our spots though, and so we said 再見

My second hike was a big loop through a gorgeous forest. Not quite as wet as a rainforest but the scents of spring were plentiful. I would have been stopping to sniff the air more than anything if I hadn’t walked up on a wildflower touring group! These people were nerding out over every third flower and taking up the whole path. When I got “stuck” behind them they tried to let me pass and I refused, asking if I was okay for me to tag along. I learned so much and forgot most of it immediately, but if anybody’s interested in next year’s 73rd annual wildflower pilgrimage, please get in touch. I’m serious.

Now I am watching yellow butterflies and black ones with blue tails. They flutter up and dance around, landing again together in the waterside mud. I wonder what they find there.

Last summer I was in unceded Shoshone territory camped out on a cliff overlooking a river about thirty feet down. It was sweaty summer weather and while I knew I wouldn’t swim in the glacial Boise River river, I did want to go dip my toes in. I scaled down the cliff to find myself on a sandy little beach that I hadn’t seen from my higher perch. I was relieved to have made it down the cliff and fairly trotted right onto the wet silty sand, startling and setting flight to hundreds of yellow butterflies that had been camouflaged in the mud only a half-second prior. Hundreds of bright yellow wings opened and rose gracefully but spastically all around me, swirling and swarming around their spot even as I stood there frozen in astonishment. After a moment in the gentle kerfuffle my eyes adjusted to notice the darker colored butterflies, lots of black with some blue-green. Surrounded by soft wings I just stood there until they settled a bit before realizing that every movement I could make would be disruptive. I felt as though I’d disturbed a secret place, so startled were the bugs, but I wasn’t unwelcome. Butterflies have no choice but grace, I suppose.

Back here in Cherokee country a raven just flew past with a mouthful of yellow wings. Can’t even be mad.