When I look above the treeline,
I see the clouds opening,
A gull embraces flight,
and I track it across the late afternoon sky.
The clouds are indecisive.
Rain? Sun? Neither.
Just the remainder of a day heading to meet a dusk secret.
Hushed by heated water vapor escaping into the air.
Other birds chirp, and I do not know their names.
They gather twigs, harvest insects.
Nature is a busy industry,
defiant of encroaching societies.
A random Monarch Butterfly oscillates past me.
I’m captured in its tractor beam, by its in-flight movie.
A solitary being.
An independant film, full of beauty and lessons.
A meddling midwife, this butterfly.
Pulling daft dullness from my wounded womb.
Clearing the ledger of my mind.
Stultification usurped by creative energy, passion, and fury.
Rebirth, one fluttering wing at a time.
Oceans away, waves search for the moon’s gravity.
Somewhat certain of its existence, despite passing doubts.
Lunar lulling rhythm,
playing sessions of seasons.
The dark side of the moon pulls the purse strings of treasured guilt.
Also, certain of its existence.
A feeling flowing as thick as honey, but as vile as vinegar to an unsuspecting palate.