Sunlight glints on spider threads
spanning a chasm of branches.

Where my neighbor shot a deer
opening day of hunting season
a smear of blood, bits of fur
we'll find after winter recedes
and the arbutus blooms.

We stick to the earth,
whether something in us
departs or not.

Where you walked to the pond, along
the failing wall at the edge of the woods,
the shape of your coming and going
has yet to disappear.

Today, in the crown of a hemlock, a porcupine
eats a circle of bark, sap beginning to run
from the wound, sticky like honey, smelling
like overturned earth after a hard rain.

Kotodama is the Japanese belief
that mystical powers
dwell in words.

For the past week, outside my window,
a crow has been repeating your name.