the blue butterfly

a bright blue butterfly was
sniffing the wet spring air near my
foot trail, her wings moving purposefully.
she was hanging from a helpful tree
as I passed by without my net.
I was searching for the trench I heard tell of,
dug several hundred years ago by prisoners
of a continental army, having been captured in
New Jersey, after having been sent by a greedy European
King in exchange for lots of money.
and perhaps I did find the trench, for what I did see might have
been the trench, leading from a small fresh-water creek
to a nearby foundry where cannon balls and shot were once formed.
but over time, wind, water, rock, and wood filled in the trench with
all sorts of dirt and forest junk, leaving only a shallow depression
where once was a mighty ditch of great consequence.
now all I saw was a long, angled depression and realized that
no simple geological explanation made sense.
this find must have been the trench, I mused,
and the blue butterfly seemed to agree.