I am black and white—and red all over the edge of my wing’s lower panel.
If I flap-flap right here, theory of chaos says it will tut-tut rain over there.
Those weary of dreary may vituperate me as the blame for their weathered storm.
But, where a leafed twig is a place to alight for peace, a bamstick’s fault-finding will never cease.
So, I out-seek company of kindred Lepidoptera, who pass on opps to be collected into a gipser’s space.
Even in a world widely wild, freedom from consequence remains a choice, not a fated, fettered case. ; )