Second Bloom. Anya Krugovoy Silver

ground was a white mess

      of clawed feathers—a struggle.

      And yesterday, Nathalie died.

      Every death, a slap that knocks

      me backwards. Me, us.

      I lose myself in the others.

      We hope, we trust; death’s

      barbed nail on our nape

      still surprises us.

      The Wild Swan Geese

      They descend suddenly, a great flock