One shaft of light in the dark. One hand raised into it. A butterfly, weightless, deciding to stay. A donkey in monk's red, reclining on cold stone. One hand rests flat against it, left in shadow. The other lifts just far enough to enter the single beam crossing the scene and there, a butterfly, wings open, balanced on a fingertip. Everywhere the light misses stays exactly what it was: the long ears, the worn robe, the patient weight of the body against stone. Everywhere it lands holds something that could leave at any moment.