Mornings still with you —
your fur shined like brushed black ink,
I choose that moment.

Where you lived your life,
I imagine you here still,
looking back at me.

Time goes by quickly,
unshaped without your presence
that gave it meaning.

We combed through the woods,
wildflowers, moss, and lichen —
all the tender life.

The beavers still work
on these trees by the river —
I think of us here.

Starting evening song,
the goldfinch in the ginkgo —
his beak to the sun.

His song like heartache,
he gives it away for free
to the whole forest.

It’s getting later,
chickadees revelating,
there is more to say.

They move spring along —
blooming in the still-cold air,
balanced on bare limbs.

My mother’s plum tree.
reaches in from the abyss —
blooms opening slow.

Reedy and intent,
his song is automatic —
Robin in springtime.

Testimonial,
above speech and below song,
this spring moss takes flight.

Am I in the stars,
the birds calling, tree to tree,
the sun on this moss?

Yard full of birdsong,
we’re concerned about these things,
my mother and me.

The first day of spring,
we’re lucky to walk this path—
every bird singing.