Butterfly Funeral

We followed in quiet as Thor led the way to the cemetary- his face blacked by the butterfly's wing dust. War paint we called it. There was only the sound of our footsteps on the dirt road to break through the silence and the heat. Beneath the oak in the old cemertary we laid the fragile creature to rest. Sam said a few words over the open grave before I smoothed the dirt over. The grave was marked by a birds feather and three sticks. We proceeded back to the house and Marcee read Psalm 23. Amen.