ENVIRONMENTAL Poem: Mourning Cloak, by Cicada Hill

Branches tether their leaves, speckles of galls
litter the underside of the fiery green maple
neighboring a rough brown cocoon, soon to
birth the mourning cloak, its wings eggshells.

Like the cry of an impending war, the sky grew
dark and howled with calamity, a thunderous belch.
The maple’s hands turned upward, unveiling the
pale green beneath the fire, mites dropping to the mud.

Soft stems and pea veins become drenched in the
early July rainfall, the gale’s raspy laughter ripping
through the unmoving tree trunks, the creek cascades.

The papery swaddle stills, tightens, surrounding the butterfly
as the downpour and cruel breeze battle, a heavy twig snaps.
Plummeting down, the branch strikes the wet dirt, the
delicate cocoon cracking as gunfire erupts directly above.

Within a passing hour, the earth was quiet once again,
maple leaves returned upright and the cardinals whistled.
The mites creeped out of hiding, peeling through the damp
soil, congregating toward the feast, one which once yearned.

Little critters surge, remnants of the mourning cloak
finding repose within their unforgiving teeth.