One summer evening, while I walked
to the store through a warm
floral breeze, I watched a finch
bathe in the cool water of a stone
bath, eat a few seeds
and rise, before an osprey
shredded it
into a snowfall of feathers
on the sidewalk.


For three weeks after
her birth, my daughter slept
in a clear plastic bin.
When they removed the tubes
from her throat, she breathed
on her own. Now she dances
in the living room, tries to cuddle
with the cats, stands to slide
a chair across the hardwood.
Now she knows my name.


It's been over a year since
I lost someone. I live
in a little yellow house
on the corner of a quiet block with trees
along every sidewalk. Light
comes through my windows. Each morning,
I eat, wave goodbye to my wife
and daughter as I leave for work, walk
quickly beneath the trees
to the bus stop,
watch little birds
hop back and forth
between branches.