© copyright 2008 

     The butterfly floated back up to face Notion. “All that's fine fettle I suppose, but more than 'inspiration', it took perspiration to implement these ideas. Without hard work, great notions are as worthless as . . . this husk!” The butterfly lingered over the discarded cocoon. “What were you doing with that?”
     “Don't you remember, Pod? I packed it under my hat? That's your old skin. You shed it when you 'butterflied' out.”
     “Silly boy, my name's not Pod,” the butterfly giggled. “I'm a girl. And that's a cocoon—it's for moths . . . Why on earth would I have anything to do with it? And why would you want to pack it around?”
     Notion flushed, rubbed his chin, and chuckled to himself. “Don't really know . . . just had this crazy notion!”
     Notion watched the butterfly flutter away on the wake of a Northerly breeze. Headed for Hyperborea and a Muse of her own mayhap? He checked the empty cocoon one last time. The laurel tree too. Then sighed, “No matter. Moth or butterfly . . . the end of one story is only the beginning of another. Like an idea, one leads to another.”