the scream of the butterfly

it was late afternoon & this rock across the yard was the last ground in the sun. i walked to the rock & saw a yellow butterfly resting on it, the color of the inside of a lemon. it took to the air when it saw me. i sat down on the rock in the sun to think & drink. the yellow butterfly was back before my ass was warm. it landed on my head. it wasn’t screaming, but i guessed it had something on its mind. we sat there, the butterfly on me, me on the rock – in the same sun in the same spot on planet earth. then it flew into the maples. i got to feeling guilty. i didn’t come to the sunny rock to feel bad about stealing real estate so i stood up & walked away. i stopped & turned: the rock was in the sun & i waited . . out of the maples danced the butterfly, small yellow and fragile. it landed gently on the rock.