The reclaimed pasture of Bells Bend Park crackles with crickets as butterflies dance at my boots, flashes of orange and black that follow my heavy footsteps past patches of trumpet vine and passionflower. Dissonant chirps drone behind blackberry brambles while common whitetail dragonflies hover over sunsoaked shrubs.
Humidity pools sweat in the folds of my shirt as I arrive at the pond, a shaded sanctuary swarming with ink-blotched butterflies. The common whitetails are here, too, battling for territory and females, an airborne reproductive war zone.
Soft wings slap my arms and face like miniature kites in the wind; ants bite my belly; but still I prefer this solitary space, birdsong in trees that rustle slowly, like the sound of long-approaching rain.
Here I am not separate, but part of something that needs no witness to thrive, a vibrant ecosystem that buzzes with life long before I arrive, and long after I’m gone.