To pick up a dead hawk
From the side of the road
And sing her into the next ~
To swallow the clouds
As nourishment, as a way
To remember the outside-in ~
To abide, only, by one's sense
Of trust; eyes closed,
Guided by spring’s offerings ~
To understand the ritual
Of becoming as unfinished,
As uncertain, as quiet, then loud,
Then questioned, then known,
Then, unknown. The ground holds,
And holds, and holds, you,
Throat still singing,
Feathers having fallen —
Some to wind, some to dirt, some ~
Holds and holds you,
You are here,
And here will change,
And you’re still held, changing.