The swallowtail butterfly

inked in inky

blue, at the

fore of the

knuckle below her

right index finger,

comes alive; and

the lessees of

ethereal acoustics, borrowers

of euphonious dreams,

levitate glassy-eyed.

She manages all

this with a

ukulele and a

dulcet voice. Even

her laugh has

a melody, her

bye makes one

Cry.