From June 27, 2012
The butterfly rests
On the branch of a bush
That is home to countless birds.
I don't know their names. 
Sometimes I wish I did, 
But usually I don't care,
And neither do the birds.
But that butterfly:
It basked there, still and steady
As the ocean roared its arrival
To the beach,
Which was not fazed by the news
Though we were and that's why
We were on our way there.
But the butterfly.
Salt air, a breeze, sunshine:
These were enough.
It would not name the birds
In the shaded nest deep within the bush
Or the flowers on which it fed.
It didn't even know
Where it was
Or what.
One Single Impression