In myth and lore, winged creatures mark endings or transitions. A butterfly, the passage of the soul from one plane to another. Moths were the ancestors’ eyes upon their people. Birds, the messengers of the gods.
Birds appeared after your last time.
A flight stood at windows, clustered
on the grounds. All silent as you are now.
Their eyes fixed toward the flutter
of curtain where I stood, half-hidden.
Jays, cardinals, the crimson and blues
were vivid against the Fall last grasses.
This time no winged emissary waited
gimlet-eyed to measure my sallow grief.
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