Looking Up

He stops to rest, and looks up at the flowers towering above him.

Up he climbs, up the twisting vines, up toward the the pink and golden buds that smile open to the sky.  The leafy path smells fresh and sweet like sun and springtime; like Sylvie.  I am on my way to finding her, he thinks.

At the top, he looks across the garden, but still does not see Sylvie.  There is only wind. A breathing, beating drum of wind from the large blue wings of a butterfly.