My friend had never before seen the monarch butterflies at the Santa Cruz coast where they winter, at what is both their migration’s beginning and ending. It was a cool, cloudy day in late fall, but warm enough that dozens of butterflies at any time were in flight just above us. Like miniature stained-glass windows, their orange and black wings charmed us as they fluttered by.

Hundreds more clustered together in the eucalyptus and cypress trees around us, staying warm this way together, their folded wings now a dusty gray. We marveled at the delicacy of such creatures that migrate over the course of generations, for thousands of miles northward and southward, somehow knowing the way.

We went back at dusk to their hushed peaceful grove, and now in the silence of fading light, they seemed so darkly magical. Whispered desires — longings — gentleness. It felt like sacred ground, so peaceful. My friend felt as if a black velvet butterfly landed on her heart with a gentle embrace. Perhaps a sense of knowing passed from one to the other?

K. M. Ehrenfeldt 11/24/2001