After a Moment of Silence for a Sudden Death
Who are these birds gathering the empty branches
outside my window into a tree again?
Thirty feet above the roofs of a hundred mourning cars
they wick out patterns of mid-afternoon orange and black
that amplify the slanting sun then come back to settle,
at ease, as if already new green leaves protected them.
As if all our thoughts about our departed colleague
had gathered outside to look back at us, prepare
as memory does for flight, disperse to the future
wherever winter thoughts fly to in spring beyond sight
Very nice. This reminds me of Stevens’ “Snowman,” but I can’t put my finger on why that is. Perhaps the “nothing that is” lives in these branches.