Contributed by G. Kittell
Now every year at summer's end
I watch, though scarcely comprehend,
A monarch with an innate sense
That migrates where unknown pre hence.
And singly flapping on its way --
Above the shrubs and over bay,
And rarely high above the ground,
This reddish bloom that's purposed bound.
But this year there has been a dearth
Of butterflies that late did birth;
Though early, vast did procreate,
Few monarchs were in summer late.
For future numbers does this mean
That next year they'll be underseen?
What happened to this summer's last,
Which every year I wait go past?
-- G. Kittell