Ashes in the tinder
of morning. Red breast
of robin on the lawn.

Sometimes, gravity
is the slow knock
of heavy bones

greeting another
sunrise. Sometimes,
heaviness is all we own.

Just the other day,
I threw away a match
and in the wind it became

a blaze. A blue green
ghost in the oncoming
dusk of traffic.

I was bellowed, combustible
as red hawks soaring,
black crows

descending to nest
for the night
in the thin veins

of the city,
trees bared
to limb months

ago and again
the season
upon us.