And overhead, the birds:
chips of bone in the sky, remnants,
fact of the world's brokenness.
You look up, asking to be forgiven for a crime
you're still trying to locate. You know it's out there,
stare toward the edge of the marsh, the welt of bright water
shrinking before your eyes. A sky of pre-worldly clarity
only confirms your guilt, an inherent misalignment
that keeps you from knowing even a fraction of what you see.
You cross the heat-ridden ground, the sweet, brittle scent
of sage rising underfoot. So easy to pretend a single word
will occur to you, and that it will do all the good
anyone could hope. The world is parched and lonely,
relies on dignity to protect it. Each thing
hanging by the thread of itself. Bleating crickets. Rustle of dry stalks.
The silence pushes you toward yourself:
it's a time to walk deep into the heart of what troubles you.
-- Sue Sinclair