The tiger swallowtail nectaring in the bull thistles has a small hole in its left wing, like a missing pane in a stained glass window that tempts bored children with a glimpse of the sky.
There are so many holes in my knowledge. The harvestman hiding in the bergamot is missing a pair of legs on its right side — does that mean it must keep two of its eyes closed if it wants to avoid walking in circles?
A bergamot leaf with a large hole plays temporary host to both a treehopper and a tumbling flower beetle, who completely ignore each other: the former has as little use for tumbling as the latter has for hopping.
A green, spotted leaf beetle scales the tip of a leaf and stands motionless for more than a minute as if suddenly self-aware, gazing at all the green leaves spotted with meal-sized holes.