I can see the fluttering of two monarchs in the neighbor's garden. And because I want to be the type of person who crosses the street to look at monarchs, I force myself to get up and cross the street. I stand, doing my best to take notice, but I'm anxious to derive some kind of meaning from the noticing so I can go back across the street and write about it, which means of course that I'm not noticing at all, but rather thinking about what I should be noticing, and then thinking about how to write about what I'm not noticing because I'm too busy thinking about what I should write.
When a car comes by,
the two monarchs flutter up
and around before settling back down.
Their bodies are fuzzy black
with the cleanest white spots,
a body builders dream body,
all chest, legs thin as veins.
Its proboscis throbs,
probing the mound of a black eyed susan,
its body convulsing with the afternoon's work.
Its wings open and close.