There was this once when, set apart
in the brush of a Rock Creek campsite, I overheard a woman from Butte as she
stepped out of her modest trailer and found the place thronged by a pullulating
mass of monarch butterflies, en route to Lower Canada. A miner’s wife, she was
suddenly and exultantly astounded by the sight and cried aloud, singing to her
husband coming after, “Oh, Vinnie! will you look at all the {effing}
butterflies! (her joy declared in seemly brackets). An otherwise sedate wife
was beside herself, profanely enraptured by the enormous palpitating cloud
rising and softly falling, heaving and gently bucking on that vivid riverine
coast. In her downright, downhome, gross delight she exclaimed to her husband
and to the landscape, her obscene ecstasy bursting at the bright abrupt beauty
of the world.
Moral: Who you are depends on this: were you struck more by
Decline and Fall or, after all and still
in all, a woman’s bliss?
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