Her head is gently bent down
as she reads through
the last edition of stories
It’s read off a tablet
tied to her hand
by some weave
Sometimes little mechanical butterflies
arrive at her hand,
settle for a moment,
held up by their
metal-like structures

She looks at them the stern way
a dog owner looks at their dog
as the dog lets out its uninhabited side
for a minute
with a mixture of discipline
and fascination

Sometimes they stay for a moment,
flutter their emerald coloured wings,
eyes open, eyes close,
they mimic looking,
like looking at the world
and then closing your eyes again,
thinking it will look different
next time your eyes open