Across my path, skipping on air uplifting, yellow wings pulse erratic in fashion as they go about their flight of fancy. I think not much, yet smile for such lighthearted play before me.

Moments and miles pass, alas, yellow wings appear and arrive in the sigh of the wind. As if to capture me they whip wildly in every direction as I dodge and lean, avoiding collision in our dance of dare.

Like ticking hands of clever clockwork they point in my direction, and I wonder of the message scripted on the yellow wings of things seeking my attention.

I think not of random chance in meeting yellow wings so plenty, and I begin to see the glee in the creatures flight. The crawler once grounded is now the flyer free, to be everything it dreamt impossible. To relinquish what was and greet what is, with gusto and fervor in fever pitch.

I nod and acknowledge the message received, the butterfly and I affirm our mantra, “I am not he, tis merely me, morphed into spirit soaring.” I sense the change and feel the difference between what was hidden and that which magic has revealed, through eyes upon yellow wings.