A morning, from early seven to noon.
Alone in the field, searching for monarchs,
and finding instead, early tiny skipper butterflies that measure at least half an inch.
Waiting quietly for a blue dragonfly to perch again, on the same blade of light green native grass, (on any blade of grass, for clear view)
for a pileated woodpecker to feed a baby, once again, way up on a barren tree.
Waiting for a young deer to finish grazing the roadside before moving on, and even then, stopping by his side, for a photo of no fear.
A loud noise and a jump in the forest.
Enchanted with an apparition, reflection of pink red-purple above a common pond.
In spite of Cartesian ID fevers,
endless competitions in naming games,
mosquitoes, flies
& doubt,
At the end of the road, a monarch, in a barren land of salty trail stone.
Nothing much in this world is better than the solitude of this morning.
