The Ruminant

Awareness feels worthier
Among the minor details,
One leaf tumbling in the sun,
Nothing profound about it.

A bluish-grey butterfly
No bigger than a thumbnail
Skitters through the invasives
That have commandeered the ditch.

How long before a species
Should be considered native,
If species even exist?
The butterfly got away

From you, didn’t it? You were
Aware of it in the weeds
A moment, before wonder
And abstraction captured you.

Each hill has its cap of cloud.
They sit like village elders
In a circle around you.
What are they to do with you?