No Blame

A stretch of stream winds
down through the rocks,
as if someone's life,
spreading in quiet pools,
rushing in narrow places.
It sings a sad song
to white stones resting,
bleached bones lying in
the sun.

             And black-eyed Susans
perk near young oak trees.

The whine of saws grind
down thorough the hills,
tearing the still air.
An orange butterfly lands
on a leaf of sweet clover
the size of two wings,
beating, folding, stopped; and sips from a drop
of dew.

           And butterflies that drink
in streams, drown in droves.

Sylvan Moe