The butterfly with gossamer wings and awkward foal legs so often blamed for grand change.
What of the ant who marches along detritus, choosing to pick up a fallen comrade rather than a speck of food? Of the cats that chase each other up the trellis fire escapes in the city beyond the garden, tripping over each other, not knowing whether in anger or jest til they reach the top? Of the wrecking ball that lays dormant? Of the human’s eyelash flicking away tears but letting through dust?
Causal or coincidence, free will or predestined, it all looks the same. Patterns only engineered in hindsight.
The garden, reflected in the eye of a bird balanced and swaying at the top of the world, keeps memories not in patterns but in pools. Not water, but vastness in information. No piece more important than another. No organization, no constants.
The catalyst for sequences, prophecies, cannot be found in the ancient books. They did not know the chain anymore than the butterfly, pressing its wings into the calling air currents to fly.