putting my phone away
the plushness of the moss
at its greenest now
at the end of a hard winter
a butterfly dances past
like a lost carnival float
the naked trees sway
gray and weather-eaten
i find a habitable hush
in the shade of a pine
though from time to time
a moan interjects
the sound of friction
with a too-close neighbor
a wild lettuce seed drifts
on a pompon of down
up over the mountain
and out across the valley
where every raw patch
of plowed or scoured earth
calls to the migrant killdeer
as an unclaimed shore
