William C. Blome
I advise you to get a barking dog if you're going to chase butterflies through a canyon and past arroyos. See, you just cannot count on the butterflies' green color being vivid enough to allow you unbroken and definitive viewing while you're on the run, regardless of where you are on the ground or where they are in the air at any single point in time, no more than I could ever count on the all-green Libyan flag being a guarantor of sturdy derricks and clean whores in the oil fields near Tripoli. But I do trust yelps from an eager dog with a sharp eye, experienced nose, and bright pink penis.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master's degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.