Tuesday, July 25, 2017


Bob Peterson, "Gray Hairstreak (Strymon melinus)," 2011

The little hairstreak slowly rubs its wings,
sliding one against the other. Small magic
the way they catch the light, as if its wings
were old silver dimes rolling across a god’s
knuckles, or ripples in the pewter water of
its genus-river Strymón. I watch as it turns
tails to heads, inverting, headstanding on
a mint blossom. I watch as its doubled tails
settle then dovetail, coin-tricking, cryptic;
so this is how it hides itself in plain sight.

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