At Bear Pen Gap
sixty-feet shy of a mile above my yard
a Spicebush Swallowtail stood delicately
on a clover blossom,
like the clover blossoms
that covered the lower, flat end of the playground
of my school.
I remember seeing the flowers up close
in the midst of play that would often have me
and many other boys,
on the ground,
in the clover.
The butterfly
had no such roughhousing with which to contend,
no threats from horsing-around.
The butterfly
flew the lengths
of the open space,
drank in air cooled
by a breeze from the valley,
soaked the heat from the sun,
nearly a mile above my yard.
