That bristled, cream-colored caterpillar tractored onto the searing black asphalt, unaware it could be scorched, or squished by a passing car. I scanned the nearby verge, cool and green under a canopy of oak trees, found a sturdy leaf, and gave the prickly creature a lift. Placing it beneath a hedge of laurel atop Pennsylvania soil rich and promising, I recognized I too have wandered onto that expanse of blistering tar. Of slightly sturdier substance, I've survived being singed. Perhaps more aware, I've avoided being squashed, or was it a kindness, a word or gesture, giving me a lift, giving me another chance to become a butterfly.