The wounded elm bleeds a butterfly
in the warm autumn afternoon.
A blanched moon is tucked away—
sullen and sun-jealous—in the blue.
The blue jay in the fan-shaped tree
releases its disgruntled exclamation,
telling us all, so it seems, that no one
will ever be free, and that he alone
holds the key. The gargantuan cry
of the hawk is repeated as it drifts
away in opalescent Southern skies.
Fearsome sun-kissed dragon clouds
cross above me, and from a sunbeam
I see the slow descent of a butterfly.
A black bird returns to its nest,
chasing off some small scavenger.
A bumble bee lays into a flower,
relishes the nectar, and ships off,
back to its hive. A big gray rain cloud
comes crawling through from Southern skies,
threatens rain, but passes over
without a drop. Windblown trees
part with leaves, which fall,
so easily forgotten.
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