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Steve (approaching): You?

Matt (relieved at the interruption): I’m departing for . . .

Mdala: Another coffee, thank you.

Anne (enters): Matt. Mdala. You?

Mdala: Thank you.

And two white butterflies break or mangle
the heavier air beneath the trees, above the grass,
soundless, rising, now falling,
slapping with their wings

Steve brings coffee.

Anne: Leaving?

Matt: I thought I’d glance at Mdala.

and at the butterflies tearing at the air
under the trees with their fairywings,
two white and spinning helices there above the grass

Steve: Coffee?

Anne: Crème et sucre.

Steve: d’accord, and you?

Matt: A menu, I think.

and butterflies at war, closing on the river
where dragonflies watch

Steve, Matt, Anne, Mdala watching the butterflies
and the trees and the grass and the river, where
there must be dragonflies

Jeanette (enters, waves to everyone): Bon jour.

Matt: Bon Jour . . . comment allez vous?

Jeanette: et vous?

Matt: Butterflies and dragonflies, because their must be?

Anne: You seem bright and early . . .

and the butterflies, two white butterflies
make refusals of rest, tearing at the air
above the river, two now distant helices
dimming under the trees