Wings open, wind-carried, an angel’s book.
Talons ready to change music to that of funeral dirge.
Fixer, finder, life-adopter, sailing through cool ether.
Mouse, you are not your hallowed body.
Spectacular, the pale glory of flight, sublimely alone.
One sharp cry above the May iris, or by winter,
over branching pipes of naked wood.
Your shape caught, sympathetic, by the hawk’s seeking claw.
Posthumous:
metamorphosis complete,
after the awe of the yellow-black beak.
The Excitable Gift
