Atop a little hill in southwestern Kentucky a persimmon falls free from its limb and lands far below upon the tin roof of the Woodworker’s shop. His ears perked up, taking note of the first persimmon he had heard fall this year. Soon they will rain upon the roof each sounding like the strike of the drummer’s snare, they will cover the ground and begin to fill the air with their sweet scent and then the butterflies will come. They will come by the hundreds to light upon the ripening fruit just as they do every year. The craftsman laid down his chisel, took a deep breath and blew away the wood shavings to reveal his latest work, a brilliantly carved butterfly. He picked it up, looked it over and carefully dusted it off before laying it atop a pile of other completed works, any one of which would be a treasure to most. But this shop had more than just one pile of treasures, the walls were lined with them, lying about as testament to the diligent work of the craftsman, his hands employed for nothing more than the love of the art. He hung up his apron as another persimmon rapped upon the roof… and he smiled.
-- "The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it" Henry David Thoreau