There was a small, black and white feline hunter stalking across Zeta's and M's back yard. Their grass is carpeted with small, pale lavender floral cups which make the grassy expanse look like a meadow. A butterfly was swooping over the little flowers as if trying to decide which among those spread below was the most appealing.
There was a puddle of black fur spread in the butterfly's erratic path. With an explosion of effort, the small cat launched itself up and clapped its front paws over the space where the butterfly had been. It was a near miss. The butterfly knew. It flew away in as straight a flight as it could manage.
The little black and white hunter strolled away. Happy Thanksgiving Day, butterfly.
And to everyone else, too . . .