Just now, under the aspen tree, you saw a spark
or a sunlit flash of wing
and thought of flight, and wonder
and then, as your eager wind spun to meet not flame, nor feather
but tree, and leaf, and endings,
you looked down.
It was almost a relief to fall, finally, and to land, not
where you’d expected
but gently, and with little fanfare
into these arms of dirt and bone,
caught like a drop of shivery light
and held like smoke or a gossamer web
between the dream’s incantation and the bright fall of its form
to what waits beneath, and the remembering that whatever is caught
must first let go.