Butterflies know all the mysteries of the universe.

Taking the prompt a little more seriously this time:

 Butterflies know all the mysteries of the universe.
 Or so some say. And it is easy to see how they reached that assumption.
 What butterflies know, they share freely. Secrets fall like scales from their wings, and they laugh their knowledge into budding blossoms and open ears. They wear their mysteries as they wear their colour, brilliant, openly, spread across the splendid, small delicacy of their bodies.
 They share secrets of the sun and air, of what grows sweetly and where and when. Secrets of where they have been and where they will always return. Prideful, clad in jewel tones and dust, monarchs and swallowtails would never hesitate to claim that they know everything.
 But mysteries of sun and air and migratory patterns are not all that hide from human eyes. Secrets of growth and nectar, while potent, do not a universe fill.
 Moths emerge when butterflies settle, self-congratulatory, into sleep. Drab cousins to daylight secret keepers, they gather around lamps and flickering candles, and share their secrets only amongst themselves.
 Secrets of dark and silence. Of isolated light, electric arcs and dancing shadow. Humans learn the secrets of moths only by overhearing, and most don’t bother.
 Most assume that moths, with their dull wings and electric fascinations, know nothing but the dazzle of light just out of reach.
 Most would never ask a moth, or ant, or hard-shelled beetle to explain the world. Most don’t want to know the secrets a spider would tell.
 The secrets of a butterfly are beautiful. The secrets of a spider are all weaving and blood, and old stories of goddesses who made them what they are out of jealousy.
 The secrets of ants are of earth and underground architecture and sub-sentient determination. The secrets of beetles are a language too archaic, too hard-shelled itself to ever be understood by soft, impatient humans.
 So we listen to butterflies when they say they know all there is to know. Their secrets are alluring to us, their flitting freedom and laughing mysteries. Their wings, beating colour, have become our standard narrative of beauty blossoming from initial ugliness.
 But we would do well to listen to others. The mysteries of the universe are complex, and widespread, and none are all for one kind to know. What the butterfly shares is no more precious than what the spider holds, deep in its clutch of limbs, in its woven story of deities and contests won long ago.

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