Trapped butterflies in a room that lifts spirits, unusually effective for an airport lounge.
They shudder open and shut, blue tracts glistening across their wings like tundra, desert yellow and grey, tempted by pineapple rings and carefully curated flowers.
We sweat heavily under bags and coats.
Looking up, one particular tree has lazy droves hanging from the leaves, inky and still, beautiful bats in a closed room.
I get distracted by an artificial pool, part of an artificial waterfall. Ripples draw you in regardless of how they're made. It makes me think of all the distant lakes I've sat by, steaming and homesick, and how I miss those feelings.
Writing an advice piece on how to prevent fungi from sprouting through your lawn, I learned that the appearance of fairy rings, often signalled by concentric gatherings of toadstools, can be driven by decaying organic matter under the soil's surface - a severed trunk, a submerged coil of root - feeding the blossoming shrooms.
The protection offered by fairy rings - metaphor for the imagination keeping the wild forests of the world at bay?
On the ribbed ceiling of our enclosure, dead husks of bygone butterflies were stuck, gently shaking in the controlled airflow of the room.