Hollow bones

of birds may hold

the Self sundered

from the body.

Some hint

of light departs

from twisted metal

to seek the lift

of lacy struts

tucked up in hawk’s wing.

 

I have no way of knowing

but I saw the red-tail rise

from where you died, those Bitterroots

can’t have you for forever.

Hawk circled

high and away,

a dark speck becoming

Sapphires, becoming mountain,

becoming

 

Published in Pilgrimage; Vol. 39, Issue 1 & 2