leaving a few feathers behind

i wing my way
over the stubble field
the grain shaved
from the earth
few kernels left for scavengers like mice
or me
and come to rest on your shoulder

you don’t greet me
with words
but the breeze animates
your straw head
and it looks like you nod

friend–I say–
friend, my visits to you end today
there is a horizon that calls to me
and the field has been harvested
and soon you will descend this pole
borne away by hands of flesh and blood

i wish i knew what would become of you

the wind makes you shrug
as if the question doesn’t concern you
perhaps it doesn’t

to the west the sun melts into the horizon
whispering my name
or was that you
speaking so low that I doubt
all of my senses
even the common one