At the puddle's edge, I pause. A butterfly with a crimped wing sits atop a leaf uncertainly. I bend my knees to look closer. The small creature looks back at me. I reach forth and sweep the leaf and the butterfly into my palm. Rising slowly, I find a new resting spot for my injured friend, one that will shelter it from careless footsteps. Before I reach the new setting, the butterfly flutters from my hand. I watch the being twirl to the ground, back into the puddle. A wisp of wind lifts it back atop a floating leaf. I gaze at my friend, and for a second time, it gazes back. I believe that the butterfly wants my aid. I do not believe that it wants to be left alone. I kneel down again and study the being more intimately. It is the insect's right wing that shudders in the breeze; the left, unharmed wing holds steadily. Moved by my friend's frailty, I reach out and perform the same act. Lifting the leaf and the creature, I place them into my hand. Rising to a stance, I halt to see what the butterfly might do next. To my disbelief, it totters to my palm's edge and dives again. Like a replaying memory from my own life, I watch the being twirl to the ground, back into the puddle. A sudden sharp wind huddles the butterfly against a clutter of twigs. But now I understand. The gust also exposes a second butterfly, whose injuries are fatal. My friend does want to be left alone, alone to spend these final moments with its dying mate.