Summer’s heat lingered well into September this year. The mercury soared to 97°F (36.1°C) on the 8th day of the month and 87°F (30.6°C) on the 18th. Yet, despite the sometimes furnace-like breath of stubborn summer, the days were growing steadily shorter. Each morning, the sun seemed to sleep a little longer. Each evening, the sun departed a little earlier. Each minute of daylight became a little more precious. Each hour of darkness seemed to stretch beyond what should have been allotted.

The lengthening nights remained unseasonably warm. Therefore, one could perhaps be forgiven for having missed the seasonal changing of the guard as the sun slipped silently across the Equator. After all, the trees had not yet put on their regal autumnal robes. But one look at the still vibrant butterfly bush, abundant milkweed, and plentiful goldenrod presented unambiguous evidence of summer’s departure. The annual Monarch migration had commenced.

More and more, one found those remarkable orange, black, and white-winged beauties in flight, occasionally sipping nectar, and frequently making an effort to absorb all of the sun’s slowly waning warmth.



In the larger arena of nature, one could even catch a glimpse of the kind harmony of which humanity has only dreamed to date. Humanity’s never-ending quest for peace on earth remains unfulfilled. But in the sweet beauty of countless flowers, magnificent Monarchs, and hovering hummingbirds, Paradise has already been found, if only for a fleeting moment.

Scottish poet James Thomson captured a little of this special beauty when he wrote of the butterfly:

See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,
…What youthful bride can equal her array?
Who can with her for easy pleasure vie?

While it may be tempting to see play in the flight of the Monarchs as they sometimes dart among the blossoms and at other times float from flower to flower, they are actually engaged in very serious business. They are in the midst of a journey of thousands of miles. They have no airline, railway, or ship to transport them. They must take to wing all on their own.

Day after day, they will fly some 50 to 100 miles through all kinds of weather and an array of other hazards. For up to two months, they will find no permanent resting place on their journey south. It is a journey they must finish even as gathering fatigue tries to seduce them into abandoning their long and perilous trip. The survival of their species demands nothing less.

This unforgiving trip will not break them. Beneath their seemingly fragile beauty is extraordinary strength. Before the curtain falls on autumn, morning mists yield to winter’s icy breath, and the first flakes of snow spread south from Canada into the eastern United States, the Monarchs will reach their winter home. They will be weak. They will be hungry. None of that will matter much. What will matter is that they will be alive. At long last, they will have respite in the welcoming branches of Mexico’s oyamel fir trees.

In their wake, they will leave behind memories of the recent summer. They will also leave the gift of a narrative of grace, courage, and extraordinary persistence. Next spring, the return of the Monarchs will provide the heroic proof that they had again succeeded in their migration. In that proof, the world will be a little more wonderful.