He kills the engine of his motorbike. I pull up beside him and turn off mine, its sputters giving way to sylvan silence. He reaches down, and I assume he has stopped to adjust the panniers that contain the homemade pickled green beans we’re bringing to the barnraising, but his hand stops short. He points at a butterfly, its wingspan no larger than that of a bee. It lies flat in the path, wings aquiver, and I would have mistaken it for a pebble if I had noticed it at all. It is orange and black.
‘I’ve never seen that color before,’ he says, and my heart leaps in my chest as it always does when Bon Iver shows me, with his simple ways, how to understand and admire the world we live in.