We watched the crows that season,
lonely for a little bit of providence.
The heat often dried dozens of worms
on the carport like thin charcoal syllabary.

In the gutter, we found a bird’s nest,
pine needles thatched with jute.
The eggs black speckled, mint.
We spared them. It’s not the same,

but the next morning, we cracked farm eggs
to fry, yolks colored almost like clementines.
Was there an augury for your sister hitching
a ride with that guy before the summer rains?

In Maine, she raked blueberries,
which she showed us after she returned home
with a daughter. The berry skin seemed frosted
and puckered into a star, the calyx.

She had stories of wheat like golden feathers,
an island of rock fogged and slick with seals.
In a month, she settled at the sawmill,
working long days as a tender.

Her daughter would often swim in the river,
a gliding cut to the shore. A couple had drowned
there one spring. Pollen, if you let it,
will turn a car’s hood to a yellowish fur.

Your sister walked everywhere but would never
leave again. And we saw her one evening,
staring. High in the branches a sheet
had blown like a flag or snow.



BUrnside Soleil