Yellow butterflies return
to oaks in the grove.
They accompany a landscape
gone to seed, ragged
and wet in the sunlight.
Their coming signals
a betweenness, something
in-wait and resistant to linear
time-framing with blinders,
the view right-now.
We can’t hear
concussions erupt across
other fields and parking lots—
but here small membranous
wings become
beautiful debris.
Photo by Marek Omasta on Unsplash
