I was going to praise the great rise
of peaks above the bustling town,
their ripped sleeves of snow, the gleam
of the silver green river below
but then the young poet beside me
whispered You have a ladybug
in your hair and the tiny creature
walked from her finger onto mine.
Nothing to do then but open one door,
then another, carry her in my cupped hand
into the yellow air of afternoon
and set her down on a striped leaf
on a bush below those grand
and spectacular mountains.