Raccoon nudged the dead butterfly gently, with the toe of his sneaker. Its wings were black with specks of orange and yellow.
“Bit early for butterflies,” Owl said.
Raccoon nodded. They both stared down. The paper-thin wing fluttered in the morning breeze. People started making their way to work or the bakery or wherever they go when they leave the house. The boys encircled the insect, protecting it, forcing the stream of walkers to split and go around them.
Owl ruffled through his pockets and pulled out a square of paper. Slowly, he slipped the paper under the butterfly and then cupped his hand over it. He looked at Raccoon, and they then walked side by side across the street, to the small park on the corner.
Raccoon dug a small trench at the foot of a thin birch tree, and Owl slid the butterfly in. They covered it and stared down at the grave in silence. The wind picked up and shook the bare branches, just beginning to bud.