every summer, they come.
when the air is heavy with the scent of flowers and the breeze is warm and the sun scorches through the trees and bakes the earth.
dancing over the ground they arrive; rising through the sky, dropping so low their wings graze the dry, crackling grass.
as silent as the stars slide into nighttime; the butterflies mean summer.
they are all things warm, and joyful and airy and gentle. they mean mild nights under a sky still light. they are the gold of sunshine soaking across the world; birds’ trills sung until all brightness of day has faded; the humidity and oppression of australian summer balanced by gentle summer rain.
and every summer, georgie chased them.
the dog was a baby, long-limbed and athletic. and the butterflies played with her, swooping higher into the sky as she launched herself off the ground after them; then dropping down again, flying right by past her nose teasingly when she landed back on the ground.
watching them, the summer was a pause; a momentary, fleeting lifetime.
every summer, as they come, they go.
in memory of georgie.