A little beige butterfly lay on the grass at my feet, feebly moving its wings once in a while. It seemed injured or weak, even dying, I thought — a sad contrast to the big healthy butterflies amongst the flowers. Then the stiff breeze let up a moment. The little butterfly quickly rose into the air and joined the large butterfly amongst the flowers. So. It was the breeze that had buffeted the little butterfly, which instinctively lay low rather than uselessly fight the elements, waiting attentively for its auspicious moment.