Bob Peterson, "Gray Hairstreak (Strymon melinus)," 2011
The little hairstreak slowly rubs its wings, sliding one against the other. Small magic the way they catch the light, as if its wings were old silver dimes rolling across a god’s knuckles, or ripples in the pewter water of its genus-river Strymón. I watch as it turns tails to heads, inverting, headstanding on a mint blossom. I watch as its doubled tails settle then dovetail, coin-tricking, cryptic; so this is how it hides itself in plain sight.