It was that curious time of day when the afternoon was morphing into the early evening and people were about to end their working day. It was a Thursday, and everyone was feeling slightly drowsy, tired after the busy week but not yet excited enough for the weekend. It was also the time between winter and spring, when the snow had not fully melted but the days were overtaking the night.
There were butterflies on the windowsill. They had never flown in the great outdoors before, as they were much too delicate for the city’s exhaust fumes and ceaseless buzz. But the butterflies spent their days by the window, looking out at the sun whose dazzling brightness seemed inviting and intimidating at the same time. They dreamt of flying close to it one day.
But something perhaps more extraordinary happened that afternoon. The photographs of the seas quivered to life in the flicker of an instant. What was once a fixed image on the wall became a boundless motion of waves which danced and sprayed and howled. The great outdoors had come inside.
And before you could even blink the whale was playing with the butterflies. Did the butterflies expand to the size of a whale, or did the whale shrink to the size of the butterfly? This we may never know.
Yet what we could see then was that both creatures were flying. One in the air, the other in the ocean. One flapped wings, the other flippers. And both were free to roam the great outdoors, even if it was inside, and even if the moment only lasted a few breaths.