“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something, and tell it
in a plain way…”
I
The white butterfly came to rest directly in front of him, landing softly on the steel railing of the suspension bridge a few feet away. Its small wings fluttered lightly in the breeze high above the strong river below, and its head turned in the direction of the man, looking more curious than worried about the circumstances it had stumbled upon. Seeing a butterfly had always filled the man with pleasure. As a young boy, he sometimes chased after them on the way home from school, but refused to capture them because he feared doing so would knock the dust off their wings; a friend always killed the white ones, pretending they were Klansmen.
II