I remember the butterfly trees near my home. We’d walk through a forest on a silent trail, all sand and shredded bark. The air was Vicks Vapor-Rub and sea foam, sharp and clean. And then the sunlight would strike a tree and a breeze would ruffle leaves, leaves that unfurled into fluttering wings, magic shimmering in a gold beam, rustling drily. Then the sun would go behind the curtain of fog, the breeze would die down, and all was silent in the forest again. The butterfly trees. Find one someday if you can.