late in the day,
consider this:
perhaps the osprey, falling
up from its coffer of odd
jigsaw seeming branches
is a possible thought coming to
shape: the breathing
of a phoenix, those old
souls that go down into their own
heat and flame and disappear
there for a while, gone the way
camouflage is gone to the one
who is viewing far,
trying to reconcile the fire
aerated to ash with
the rising up from it all almost
entirely intact, brand new,
and sifting from its breast,
indeed every feather’s vane
and barb, the minute bones of all
those ancient lives, and wedding them
with the paradox of its only just
now, this moment, beginning.
