Zaca Lake

A white-bellied carp breaks the water’s

surface, crickets chirp a background chorus.

Bats fly a crazy trajectory, then

fold like origami, cling to the eaves.

A great horned owl swoops, glides

above an old man who fills mason jars

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;

of 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.

Sandra Giedeman