The larvae of the neon butterfly crawl in formation, as opaque as clouded glass but not more. They’re a thin line up wooden telephone masts, over clothing lines, on the underside of precariously balanced planks, just to reach the neon-brimming signs adorning the faces of pizzerias or other greasy venues. In a concerted effort, the larvae wrap their translucent silk around one chosen pipe, and crawl in under the wraps, causing that single letter of the sign to flicker for a season or two until it pops, in the middle of the night, releasing neon butterflies into the urban sky.
I like the contrast between the butterfly and the neon signs and pizzerias. City life has its own nature.