For almost two years, a butterfly kite hung in the upper branches of a maple tree on our street. At night, its yellow wings soaked in the glow of street lamps. By morning it was a caution sign, a bow of light, a blinding amendment to leaf and trunk. It bleached in summer heat and wintered over like a blown shell. After storms fractured the rods, its forewings collapsed onto hindwings. Blue and pink markings faded to old bruises. Near the end, the kite dangled from a branch like a butterfly clinging to a torn chrysalis. It rocked and spun, but there was no great release, no flapping off with the monarchs. One morning it was simply gone, disappeared like a species of one.
