Flight
Nov 1 · 1 min read

Three months after you jump
from the high red bridge,
the neighbors bring home an injured owl.
He is sick, near starving,
one wing hung crooked
by his pale chest.
He cannot fly, but hops about the cabin,
takes thawed mice in his bill,
gains strength.
He mends in time.
You did not.
You flew, a while.
You floated down, I guess, toward the bay,
knowing. Seeing the end most of us never see,
deep blue and August-sparkled through the fog.
You hid your injury, mostly.
We knew…
