Miklas watched the butterfly through his optics. He was positive it was a Grizzled Alpine Skipper. It was not brightly colored-mostly grey and brown with small white spots, but Miklas appreciated its beauty nonetheless. How much better it is to see it live and in the wild rather than dead in a glass-topped case with a pin stuck through it, he thought.
Miklas wished for a camera, or someone who could share the moment.
“Pyrgus Andromedae” he whispered the name in a soft and reverential voice. He was used to being alone in the woods with no one to share his experiences.
The night chill was starting to burn off. It was going to be a fine day, and the warmth had brought the Skipper out to feed.
With practiced slowness, Miklas reached for the knob on his scope. He touched a dial and the reticle came into focus, giving the exact distance to the Skipper: ninety-eight meters.
He wished he could walk over to study it in depth, remembering every detail from his study in the University. He knew he could not get to it before it flew away. The lovely brown and grey would give it undefeatable camouflage in the nearby bushes, and Miklas knew he would never find it.
What good would it do anyway, he asked himself. Miklas could never bring himself to capture a butterfly. It was not a scientific specimen – it was a precious life, he once told a professor. Touching the scale-covered wings might panic it, and the Skipper could injure its wings trying to escape.
No, it was better to stay here, watch, and enjoy the grace of the Grizzled Alpine Skipper in its natural environment. Miklas savored the transcendent moment as the Skipper flew and lit on another flower. The butterfly extended its proboscis into the blossom and drank the life-giving nectar. The antennae swayed in the soft morning breeze, and Miklas thought for a moment that he could make out the wing veins. He wished that his optics were better, but this was the best he could get from the company, and he was told that he would have to make do. Still, they left him alone to do his job, and whenever he could, he would steal these moments.
Miklas heart pounded as a wasp darted past. He remembered that Skippers were prey for wasps, dragonflies, and other predators. It must not have seen his Skipper.
Miklas thanked God that his Skipper was safe. Then he chuckled to himself, amused at his own pretension. His Skipper? He did not own the Skipper, as much as anyone could own a moment as rare and wonderful as a Grizzled Alpine Skipper on such a pristine morning.
He smiled.
Miklas adjusted his position, careful not to disturb the tranquility of the morning. With great care, He swung his sight over until the reticle’s crosshairs rested on the face of a Serbian officer.
“Bastard” he exhaled, three pounds of pressure on the trigger.