Clouds sow dust across the evening sky. Still wings lurk and listen, while absorbing the residue heat of a summer day on an empty walkway. Tired old wings today pressing against the last hour, slowing only the stir of its own flutter, not of time. Delicate wings on closer look, served in repeated flight and braced for the urgency of strong winds. Folded, swiftly opened, vibrating to the hum of life at drowsy dusk; the name of a pub on Connor Street. A pint a minute contrasts the repetitive yawning of brilliant colors in said hidden fold. Easily missed on a tasteful sip, barely a blink of the eye, butterfly breeding its soul into the charge of night. I sit and watch and watchful too the winged creation, both here in mutual residence of this ever-passing lifetime.