November 12

It is sort of like divorcing
the sparrow from her twine, her wisdom.
It is sort of like presuming
that the wind will blow
all of our courage away.
My mouth -- the widest,
coldest cave -- welcomed
no sparrow, no wind.
No more shelter, no more notes carried
only to hide modestly
among the garbage
that has gathered there.
It is sort of like that,
only more dangerous, more public,
a tale bifurcated --
forks in the path, both sides sharpened.
It is sort of like all of this,
with a vague amount of certainty,
like the buffalo being led off the cliff.
The twine floats on the wind,
so careless without purpose,
without creating warm nurseries.
Maybe it is sort of
like that, with winter coming
and not enough nourishment to survive.