I want to write a poem about the world with nothing fancy,
nothing more than the hum of bees,
dashing past, declaring summer,
nothing more than the rushing of the river,
the occasional plop! as water hits stone,
or a fish leaps for flies,
nothing more than the rustle of the wind,
moving through the full leaf oak
like a wave
nothing more than the percussion of familiar –
a chainsaw in the distance,
the cry of sheep,
the rumble of a tractor on the hill,
nothing more than the silent dance of
two white butterflies
turning and dancing and
caught in the music of this moment
no, nothing more than this,
the unromantic cheep of birds I do not know,
while butterflies dance to the glug of fish in water,
the hum of bees and tree crescendo
as the tractor rumbles distant on the hill.

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The piece was prompted by the first line of a poem by Mary Oliver, This World, in Why I Wake Early. (We share the first line.)