Poetic notings of an afternoon in July 2021 while reading on my front porch in Colorado:

A winged yellow insect appears on the page I am reading, walking northward, parallel to the epic’s spine. It pauses in the gap where the sentence soon will end, “Music erupted in the [insert insect here] camp,” 

a brisk guy line in the song of the Old West, three hummingbirds – a Rufus, maybe two, and a cousin they bully in transit – cut lines of flight and sound, an aerial skirmish around the red glass feeder, nectar-sweet, that hangs above the front steps that lead away from where I sit (or to), 

reading under cover while temperatures of autumn and rains of summer fall and granite riffles the facing mountain side in my good view, lightning and thunder dancing beyond the rugged ridge, 

for I too sit in the Old West so epically detailed in the book in my hands, and pause in the gap of the story of blood and thunder unfolding to observe this winged yellow insect.


Photo by Max Muselmann on Unsplash

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