I go to where
wild mountain thistle grows,
out alongside country mountain roads—
made up of honeydew dawns,
and held in bright/
blue/ sky-kisses.
 
And there—
I saw a monarch today—
visiting purple thistle blooms,
flirting with Black Swallowtails,
and Viceroys too—
as each one was finding its cue
from Earth’s/ mighty bounty.
 
Feeding without departing
and then in the next moment,
flying off/ from one flower to another.
Drinking in sweet honey nectar—
to make their long fall migrations,
going southward/ all the way to Mexico.
 
Folding their bright orange and black wings
as if in silent prayer—
and suddenly opening their wings so wide/ they took off/
all at one time/ joining in an unceasing choir of musical glory-songs—
all in sheer anticipation
of reaching their newfound winter homes.