It's of magic—this sighting
of this mythical thing. Here
and then later, here.
The egg in the nest.
The clutched chick.
The bird in flight, migrating.
And what of you? It's been years.
I never see you in this city just barely
a city. And how I long.
I can't seem to rid myself
of thinking of birds, of spotting them
as they pass overhead. Even that one night
when I was more worried about my sure step
and kept looking down
and kept looking down.
Can't seem to stop making a kind of
connection between them and all else—
how you flew. See.