What keeps me here could be the morning birds,
five pairs of wings ascending toward the sky
without an explanation, trees now dumb
without their cries or songs, a bird-less yard
imprisoned with its August silences.
What ties me to the world’s a yellow finch
or cawing crow, its darkest strategy,
or just hawk shadows passing over grass,
tangential flash of tanager when I am blue,
blue bluer than a wingless curiosity.
