The hummingbird moth arrives on our door.
He stays–for days–as if a sentinel.
I come to depend on his presence.

A yellow bird dances in flight with a butterfly
until two
become one.

A blonde fox leaps through the tall grass
focused
on her pressing schedule.

Two boys slumber in a nearby teepee
their dreams floating up
as if smoke signals to the ancestors.

I sit reading Peter Matthiessen’s book
on his search for the elusive
snow leopard in the Tibetan Plateau.

Here, at the base of the Flat Top Mountains
I search for elusive solitude and peace.
A snow leopard moth arrives on our door
its head covered in soft fur.

Daily, moths arrive on the wooden door
their beautiful markings
humble even the majestic monarch.

Together
the moths silently meditate,
drawn to an illumination
I do not see.

Now
intimate comrades,
The Sentinel gingerly marches onto my finger.
From his perch
we each stare into the wonder of creation.

On our final morning
the poetry of the world
reveals its splendor to me.

Sunlight takes its turn from the stars.

Horses make their way up the meadow.

And in that cyclical rhythm
life’s mysteries are at once
perfect
ever changing
and unchanged.

(Meeker, Colorado)