Friend, I think only the monarchs following some magnetic compass in their butterfly bellies south to central Mexico, home they have never seen or known or been told about, are sure of anything. And even these, with their celestial confidence and journey coded into their genes, die on arrival, their complex, compound eyes never getting to see an overhead shot of the flight path or some moving montage of how they made it, finally. But dear god did they beat their fragile, paper wings to tatters trying, spend their lives and pigment and ease to bring to their children bright orange blossoms in winter; to their children a warmer place to be.
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“Beat their fragile, paper wings to tatters trying,
spend their lives and pigment and ease to bring
to their children bright orange blossoms in winter;
to their children a warmer place to be.” OUCHIE 😭