Measuring the Passing of Time

The paper tears
as littering wind
quiets and down drafts
a tiny dead butterfly
onto the remnants of
the quiet morning.

Which deadful minute
callously threw it
across the sky
without even knowing its fragile keep
was so balanced there?

The pearl of a dog's ear trembles
as lolling goes into afternoon;
it would seem that nothing has changed,
if not for the door
and the barefoot cement
where the sun passed so quietly
and left a line of time
in the warmth under one broken wing.