The temperature drops, and the butterfly on the green can no longer flap its wings. It sits on a flower, motionless, reliant on the patterns and colors of its wings to ward predators off. Most likely no one will notice its presence.
The temperature rises, and the insect flutters, popping off the floral field, demanding all of our attention, like
Mrs. Monet's red kerchief.
More exquisite exlibris by Kosa Balint can be found archived
here.
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