Friday, and she calls from a dark place,

says how she fears weekends with their

various demands, two days without

the structure of nine to five. I listen


but notice how in the far distance the black

silhouette of what surely must be

a swallowtail butterfly departs from the

Rose of Sharon, how dark things lift off


and take wing if we let them go about

their business. I ask if she’s makiing any

more scarves for the homeless camp and

she says yes, she’s finally sorted it out,


those tangled skeins, yarn. Thinks

she may have an idea or two. In her

silence I see the tortoiseshell cat by

the cantaloupe flats making her own fun.


Let the querulous voice inside my head go

still, yield to our mutual goodbyes and decide

to count butterflies on the sweet spire, rush

to save the garter snake from the kitten.