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the butterfly's loping 
flight carries it through 
the country of the 
leaves delicately, and 
well enough to get it
where it wants to go, 
wherever that is, 
stopping here and 
there to fuzzle the 
damp throats of flowers 
and the black mud; up
and down it swings, 
frenzied and aimless; 
and sometimes
for long delicious 
moments it is perfectly 
lazy, riding motionless in 
the breeze on the soft 
stalk of some 
ordinary flower.