The Monarch

I saw it fly across my path. From north to south. On a hot summer day in Oklahoma. Monarch colors glistened in the low western sun. Its fragile wings beating to the rhythm of a tiny heart. I wondered. Was it thinking of a meal? A pretty flower at the end of day? Never thought it would be swept away. In a rush of glass and steel. Trapped and helpless in a wiper blade. Headed East on 51 toward the still water. So I stopped and examined the powder. Left when it hit. As if an airliner went down. Wreckage strewn along a trail. Leading to it. Alone with a broken wing. Not understanding the hand setting it free, and placing it carefully, on a bed of clover, beside the road. Then moving on. E.G. Maynard. 46 & 2. 3.