The story of the migration of the Monarchs is becoming more compelling to me. My natural curiosity has been accelerating. I've bought two books, "Chasing Monarchs," by Robert Michael Pyle and "Four Wings and a Prayer," by Sue Halpern. It was even difficult deciding which to start with so I picked up the former and was so mesmerized by the first paragraph that I couldn't put it down.
No orange shows in the tall firs. In the predawn pallor, the bark is cloaked with a gray nap. The boughs look swollen, as if hung with Spanish moss. The gray burden is butterflies, their wings folded to show only the dull undersides. Then the sky breaks open to the east and tentative sunbeams fondle the higher boughs. A rustle begins, almost too soft to hear, as the temperature rises. A wing spreads, then another. The orange appears. A daub, then a streak; slowly spreading at first, a cool fire in the canopy becomes a conflagration in minutes as a million butterflies lift off. Now orange fills the forest, eclipsing the green beneath the high Mexican sky." ("Chasing Butterflies")
This morning when I arrived, a tiny bit of sun sneaked in from the East window, casting it's illumination on just a few butterflies.
Later in the day, Jason Loring, the HVAC mechanical guy came for a visit. He's from South Boston and wanted to see if I was wearing my Harvard tee shirt. I was so he stayed for a chat.
The end of the 9th day.