At this point, I thought I might just read my new column
about these woolly bears.
"When April's orange poppies came, I land in Desert Canyon
where maps of tiny plants with tiny flowers bloom.
I see you on bare Earth, a two-inch bottle cleaning
brush, an Arizona-wandering woolly bear.
I can't see your head or legs, 'til suddenly you
run, your small, black button head confidently
bearing north, north-east.
You meet a golden weed and take a bite, then Heron's Bill
and trailing Allionia.
Bluebonnet, buckwheat, spiderling all
become your banquet.
And then you find a fiddleneck, and oh the taste
is wonderfully good.
Your jaws go wild on hairy leaves and violins
of orange flowers.
I pick you up and bring you home.
And yes, from fiddleneck a sap will make your taste buds madly
fire.
You can't resist the taste of poisonous [INAUDIBLE]..
Your bold black hair declares a better body."