The first butterfly

9 a.m. Feb. 28, a sunday  morning

The storm is all cleared up//the birds sing their feathered heads off//for the first time I’m aware//that it’s the males singing

and for the first time I’m aware//of male gnats flitting in the sunlight//in a giant rave//hoping to appeal//to their  ladies//before they’re eaten

guys go-for-broke//up and down the food chain//the world filled with desire//and its form is song//and dance

its spring

i

saw my first butterfly of the year//still creased and wobbly//new leaves on the persimmon tree//decorate  the dead twigs of winter//in palest, most tender green

and the sky is stained-glass indigo//like mornings at summer camp//I’m 9 or 10//can’t understand why people spend//their lives indoors when there’s this

powdered sugar dusts the mountain crests//Baldy proud in ermine