Tropical Storms, Tropical Heat
The butterfly landed briefly on a broad leaf, wings opening and closing like breath.
“Whoa,” he whispered. “Did you see that?”
Bobby crouched beside him, careful not to crowd. “That’s a blue morpho,” she said. “They look bright like that when they fly, but when they close their wings, they disappear.”
Christopher frowned. “Disappear?”
She nodded. “The outside is blue. The inside is brown, like bark. It’s how they survive.”
The butterfly lifted again, the blue momentary and electric, then vanished into shadow.
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