A broken ankle slows you down. It changes your perception to the world, especially your world, and your activities. And the value you place on the things you do. Some are obvious like your gross weekly income and itemized expenses. The others are subtle, with value which is easy to miss, like watching the butterflies in the garden or releasing the flies that have gotten into the kitchen but do not know how to get out. They find their way to the screen and bang their bodies against the net until they are exhausted and drop to the sill. I can almost hear their whimpering, "let me out, someone, anyone, help me." I think poorly of them. Scornfully assessing their intelligence as less than the butterflies caught in my front porch. I notice that I am more eager to assist the hysterical creatures fluttering against the glass in confusion-and I do not blame them for their mistake. I'm just as convinced of their virtue as I can guarantee that those flies are up to no good, simply waiting for an opportunity to bite me. I have no photos of flies or their younger siblings, the maggots. I rarely acknowledge their value. Images of English roses, cardinals, monarch butterflies, French pastries all have space on my hard drive. Yet a broken ankle provides an opportunity to observe what has been unnoticed, not worthy of noticing, for so long-and to compare monarchs to houseflies, and roses to crabgrass.