Butterfly

A flutter of colors own the sky.

Dainty bits of stained glass thrown across

Fields and parking lots like summer's confetti.

Something so delicate,

Nature's own blown glass,

Stands no chance against

The garish rush

Of city suburbs that mistake stained-glass wings

For brightly-colored bits of rubbish.

The bits of stained glass color that fall

Too near the noisy streets

Shatter against car windows

Their colors abandoned.