Swallowtail song

Most flowers in the Ozarks die
by the end of July, replaced
by dark-winged butterflies

lace-filled skies, the Ozark jungle thick,
close, asthmatic, stuck, feeling

the way I found that swallowtail
glued to asphalt one August,
flailing her final flutter song,
long guttural notes I nearly tuned into

on sorrow,
on flight,
on home.