Two days after John Farrington’s eleventh birthday, a migration of monarch butterflies landed on his house.
When John came out the front door that morning the monarchs covered the side of his home like some living carpet, their orange wings folding and unfolding so that the pattern never stayed the same from one moment to the next. Clusters of the butterflies decorated the porch railing, the lawn chairs, the family car, and patches of the side yard.
It was the most amazing, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
John made not a sound, for fear of frightening the flock away. And though his hands fairly itched to catch one, he worried that if he tried the whole flock would take wing. Barely daring to breath, he walked a few feet from the house then sank gently to the ground, where he held as still as he could.
This sitting still was not easy for John. He was rambunctious by nature, and preferred running and shouting to being quiet. But in this case he was willing to make an exception.
His self-control was rewarded when one of the butterflies landed on the tow of his sneaker. It opened and closed its wings once, then began to walk up his leg.
