Smarty Wombat Nose.

​At the threshold of the bridge, light rolled over velvet orange. A petal. A fire-streak. A wing pulled by the tide. I didn't know what I was seeing at first, so I looked harder. I don’t think I was meant to see her. Or, if I think about it now, I don’t think she wanted me to see her. I had to look her up on Google: Australian orange-ringed butterfly. She was so small, maybe three centimeters. But there she was, landing low near the clumps of grass held from falling by rocks stacked towards the creek—very small, like an orange dot.

​I shouldn’t have thought it, but where she was... I hadn't been through that untamed part since I was a child, about ten years old. I was a bit scared then, but I think I felt more scared now. Did you hear my thinking? They say you get more sense as you get older, don't they? Most who know me would go quiet or mutter that’s debatable. Hmph. Anyway, I decided then I’d get closer. If you think about it, I really couldn’t look for her tomorrow, could I? By tomorrow, she’d be gone. That "one day" thingy... ring a bell for you?

​So there's this small path—luckily for me, it was stamped down, maybe by dogs or people, or there could always be something else—yowiesss! Anyway, safe enough to walk. The long grass was to the sides of me, so I stepped over broken branches. It reminded me of a game of Fiddlesticks, where a fistful of sticks are let go and you have to pick them up one-by-one without them falling over, or crashing, or collapsing—or you lose.

​Yep. Falling down, crashing, or collapsing? What was I thinking? Broken hip, twisted ankle, flipped on my back, carried out on a stretcher?

​Anyway, I’m halfway down and halfway up. I shuffle my feet around the lumps of grass. It’s that sort of hay-like, warm, incubatory grass—the stuff that snakes hide in. I gave a nervous laugh. Yep, those eight-out-of-ten world's deadliest snakes out there, especially now it's cold. They’re a bit like insomniacs: up very early, rustling around in the pantry searching for mice and birds' eggs. Yep, they don't like it if you wake them. They don't have a coffee machine. "Get grumpy" is an understatement. They'll chase after you, reared up. The thought did cross my mind: I wished I had worn thick woolen walking socks. Don't believe me? You try it. They chase after you like a flying whip!

​Breathing! Butterflies are strange creatures when you really think about it. I saw her. They hatch from an egg. I’m not surprised that this one's nocturnal; has horns on its head and tail, if you know what I’m saying. Nocturnal with horns? Then it builds a cocoon and emerges as... that... be careful. This consciousness. You don't think there’s consciousness? Then chase that one. Do it, I dare you! Don't believe in the devil either? Chase her!

​People think butterflies drift, or glide like birds, or toss in the wind like scraps of tissue paper. They don’t. They're not silly; well, this one wasn't—she knew things. You should have seen it—I’m there pulling my shoes off, didn't want to get them wet. I shoved my socks into their toes, tied the laces together, and slung them over my shoulder. I rolled up my jeans leg and, one step at a time, balanced on the stepping stones in the creek. She laughed at me, poked her tongue and heckled, “Come on, smarty wombat-nose. Think you’re smart? Cross the creek. I’m waiting. Got the video running.”

​Ouch! Some of those stones were sharp and the water was real cold. A couple of guppies shrieked—in hindsight, I do need to lose a couple of pounds, you know. Anyway, where was I? Butterflies? Yes; and they float, but they change flight with intention. Well, that one did. You see that now, don’t you? You see that they might even notice you? Well, she did. I mean, you’re huge. They aren’t just part of the scenery, though I’m sure that one could be when she wants to—hmm, when she wants to. But you’re huge—how could they, the collective en masse, miss you? Besides, they only have one day like this, so I guess they’d be selective. Surely, they’d have boundaries? They’re doing stuff—the stuff they want to do, because they only have one day.

​Yep. One day... you’d want to do the stuff you want to do, too, wouldn’t you? They land exactly where they mean to, thinking of that "one day" thingy. I mean, think of the urgency: "I have one day." It's sort of final. I think in the Bible, one day is actually a hundred years. Not sure there, but I'd be pulling out the contract and dialing the "Big Guy" up there with a little complaint; maybe bring up that idea of one day equals a hundred years. Then if I lost that to buy more time, there's the second argument: one day in the ancestor realm is equivalent to one month on earth.

​I got to the other side. She's there. I followed her back up the hill. She floated just out of reach, like she was doing a mocking whistle. I thought she might have heard my thoughts. If she had a face, she would have had a big smile on it. It’s like she would have placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "Walk with me."

​The thing about our Australian country is that just one sliver of light, one peek at the liminal, and you're gone. Crocodiles have that in their eyes. And this butterfly knew it. She knew a good deal when she heard it. For a hundred days, she could have her nails done, go on a shopping spree, catch a plane to Bali, do a little wine and dine, try a few substances? See? You're not going to look at Australian native butterflies the same way now, are you?

​She patted my favorite sitting bench. "Sit," she said. She pulled her phone from her handbag. She mumbled that Narelle was her name. I said, "Like Narelle the Gazelle?" She huffed and rolled her eyes to change the subject.

​"Hey, I like your tattoo," she said. "A chess piece, huh? The Queen? Oh, yeah... the Black Queen. Oh, haven't you got history?" She scratched the side of her face and poked her tongue in her cheek. "The Queen on the chessboard," she nodded, "the Queen has power and can freely move anywhere." I knew it! She continued, "It's like I have plans and need a little more time. A hundred years sounds really good. I'd get to be a monarch, see my grandies and their grandies... I've got the Big One’s number—you know, that Eye in the Sky d."

​"Oops," she said as she dialed Him up. "Hello?" She passed the phone over.

​I said, "Yes, I know what time it is. Aha... there's a maths problem? Yep... Yep... A hundred years? Done." I pulled my fist down with a "Yes!"—like I had won a court battle.

​Funny... today I decided to sit back there. It's my favorite resting place. And there was a plaque I'd never seen before. It was tarnished and dusty, so it wasn't new. It read: This is a place where John would wander. May it always remain. A seat for wandering people. A liminal space.