elk song had filled her ears, in the very distance
the willows left behind, a tireless search on beaten wings
but what answers does a butterfly need?

perhaps not many. perhaps she wouldn't know what to even ask.
but butterflies never answer questions, truly.
nor do they really answer them, either.

butter and syrup kiss the breeze of noon that brings her to the very edges,
the farm sight is something familiar,
and yet something very odd.
odd like her, almost. but more unsettling.
where were the two leggeds? they would have been up by now to feed,
but so far, pancakes has only seen wild creatures.

something feels longing, if a butterfly could feel such a thing.
perhaps she might find more of her kind out here,
perhaps they'd make their choir.

"never let it be said that I’d rather be
firing arrows at heart-shaped dartboards
or in a cave composing polyglot puns.
I crave, I long for transforming love"

the transforming love of someone she might know,
or someone who would wish to know her too,
one day, one breath, one song, one wing.

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