Lost
purposefully on the trails of Mt. Rainier,
I need to return to the balm
of bead lily and bunchberry, the calm
murmurs of Douglas fir and deer fern.
Instead, I come to a halt
at the sight of a piece of litter. Here,
in the wild escape from the city’s
fervor, I’m amazed
how one piece of cellophane
trumpets my moral outrage.
I bend to pick the cursed thing up.
My hand holds a dragonfly wing.
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