Thousand: Seven Hundred Eighty-Three

A butterfly wobbles in, all colors spilled and splashed and folded. The butterfly transits the world, almost landing on the horn of the first angel, almost touching down on the big red comb of angel number two, dancing seductively around the pewter cowboy like a veil just starting to slip from a nipple. Finally, deliberately, the butterfly alights, hooking its slender feet onto the terrain of the comet hovering above the game. I don’t know if the butterfly is really an angel. I doubt it. Angels aren’t as nice as butterflies, and butterflies aren’t really nice, except to look at.