Instantly, soundlessly, a meadow called bereft.
	One day, a hawk’s meadow.

Above, a red-tailed hawk fools me
into thinking he’s an eagle
flaps his wings wildly

then glides until I know, yes, it is you.

What is remembered when blinded?
Try to wake to the sun’s flash of denial.
	The problem: I am grief’s land.

One day, I am a hollow.
	One day, a long depression of land, a hollow, carved out close to a river.

You bring me rain, carry it in your mouth
as if I were a baby bird. You make many trips.
Squat beside me.
There were never enough words between us.
Before you leave, you cover me with birch bark.
Say: You are safe.

What I want for you:
	To be a Mountain Bluebird, escaping the blazing forest,
or if you prefer,
	water running downhill stretching into a river.