Yellow and purple, a bruise
atop the shortgrass. Near the oak
where a thick green caterpillar
fell grassward last fall
like a wish blown to wild chance.
The same, perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
The wind doesn’t care. It ruffles
the furry abdomen, twitches the wings
in a mockery of flight, the still body
now more like a strange seed.
Its wish, maybe, all along.
Thanks to Shot Glass Journal for including this poem in Issue 29.