At dusk, bats fly a crazy trajectory 
then fold like origami, cling to the eaves. 

A great horned owl swoops and glides 
above an old man who fills mason jars with
with what he calls sacred mud of the healing lake.  

In the lobby of faded sun, I pass row 
after row of pinned butterflies under glass.  
Memento Mori of old hotel, long-gone guests; 
Anise Swallowtail 
Mournful Duskywing
Cabbage White. 

Days of green and summer’s 
sulphurous heat that bursts cocoons.
Fragile speckled wings that someone 
Felt the need to pin down.

You’re awake as a child until 
they teach you the names of things.