Jim Churchill-Dicks
Monday
Late for work. Barely light I drive
into the forest to meet my students
and fellow guides, armed with backpacks
ready for the Strawberry Mountains.
Tuesday
At Strawberry Lake, nestled in crowning
mountains, there isn’t a cloud in the sky,
not even a jet stream, just an empty
blue, met by jagged rocky spires.
Up high, we swim in icy water
with barely enough breath to tread above
the surface. We fish with found hooks
and discarded line, try to make fire
with bow drills and friction, and carve
loved ones’ initials into sticks.
Approaching midnight, my friend and I look
up at the stars, the night’s full harvest
of fireflies. Not even airplanes pollute the sky.
Wednesday
We reach the top of Strawberry Mountain,
scaling stone upon orange stone, devoid
of plant life, yet there are thousands
of black butterflies, fluttering up in our faces,
then rising upward--
Thursday
My friend emerges from the store, armed
with plastic sacks of groceries for a picnic
lunch. There is urgency in his face as I
come to help him. His face is ashen.
He tells me about pictures, about something
horribly wrong, planes like meteors falling
from the sky, driving the towers down, pouring
smoke, raining people, the ground collapsing
beneath them.
We look to the bus of hungry children,
expectant and oblivious, more innocent
than we’ve ever seen them
and I think back to the thousands of black
butterflies, ashen paper floating
from an otherwise empty sky.
