Go Well

Three birds.

One.
Two.
Three.

They rested a while
on the house.

One
flew up first.

I
lifted my head.

“Couldn't you stay
a little longer?”

The bird
did not come back.

The second
followed.

The two
grew smaller.

Only the last bird
remained,
looking where the others had gone.

I too
looked at that bird.

The bird
turned its body.

I
half raised my hand,

then laid it on my knee.

If I raised it,
I felt it might come back.

The last bird
flew up.

A little late.

I
said softly,

“Go well.”

The bird
grew distant.

I
did not call.

The smaller the bird grew,
the wider the sky
around it.

The eyes that had watched the sky
slowly
came home to the house.

In the end,

one by one,
he took things away.

He lowered the body,

dried the color,

lessened the line,

and stopped
the hand.