The Butcher and the Butterfly
My bus arrived, and I loaded my bags and sat down. When I looked back out my window, the butcher was standing outside, looking at me, his moustache curled up as he pointed his finger. I looked where he was pointing, and saw the butterfly fluttering right by my window, the sun shining through its wings like they were delicate stained glass windows in an ancient cathedral, and I had to glance down to make sure I was actually on a bus and not a magic tapestry.