The beaver is dead

And so is the partner of this Canada goose

Who has two goslings and is a

Complete wreck

About crossing this street.

I stand and watch this mama and her babes

In the pouring rain.

Passing cars douse us with upturned puddles

As the wind blows too cold for May

And too hard.

Cross, birds, I think.

I will be here in my red slicker

And I will see you safely across.

But she is waiting for me to go away.

Waiting. Not pressing.

The difference is everything.

I am floating on the grey light of dusk

Weightless and peaceful despite the fear

And married to these birds who tell me

In their waiting

To be here

But do it over there

And not too much.


One Single Impression