The Meadow 9 filaments Robin Gow when the birds died we collected them in a glass holy-goblet. blew on them softly until they turned to light. still though, on the right afternoon i will turn on a fire & hear a thousand wing-beats. nestlings falling toward flight. during the years without a sun we had no idea what each other looked like. spent our days re-telling the stories of our lives until they were as short as a sentence each. “i caught a devil in the creek rocks” & “my mother couldn’t remember my name” & “without the smell of lavender i’d be dead.” i want to learn to catalog my losses without living only for them. this is easier said than done. here is where the birds died. we have light because the birds folded inward & opened orchidly onto the room. my sentence is “i was a girl & then, i was a boy & now i am a prophet.” i saw feathers behind my eyelids since before i knew what they were called—
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