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There is something so Audrey Hepburn about a monarch butterfly.

Maybe it's the infamous sight of one prancing free

In sync with beauty

Or maybe its the black colored scent glands

Featured on each fragile wing,

delicate like a newly spun web

Or is it the soaring limit of eleven thousand feet of freedom.

The elite ability of the longest migration

Or the antennas longing for a Zinnias nectar or need for milkweed

Or sailing the wind one hundred twenty flaps per minute

A beauty among skies

After thirty days, an egg, larvae, a pupa, and eventually an adult

Gaining more than three thousand times its original weight,

It gains pure-irrational beauty

Oh monarch, spotted in glory, painted in praise, who can compare?

Outlined in black, dipped in orange, who can compete with such glory?


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