The day after the butterflies hatched. They waffled back and forth from tree to ground to tree. Mom says they look drunk, and I bet they are. I would be if I'd just dug my way out of a cocoon. Blue and brown and bright, bright yellow. This one is the only one that would stay still for me--which is lucky since Spittle loves to lick insects, a loving habit if so many didn't end up dead by tongue lashing.