On Sunday they said 
Create No Sorrow
And yet I feel the sorrow of the land
others have created. 
I am bracing myself, 
am building an armor for what 
may happen when we fail. 

On Monday we were greeted by the swallows
who had returned for their breeding season
Birds. The one moment when hollow bones
mean the ability to fly. 
When air, seemingly empty, 
carriers birds on their wings
a kestrel braving the wind
a northern harrier Do you see it soar?
a majestic red tailed hawk
so close, his color a direct
link to our worrying hearts. 

On Tuesday we recognized the hawk’s color
in a stone we found
where people had been walking the land. 
Pigment created by rhythms of our feet.
I collected some stones,
memories preserved in my pocket. 

On Wednesday I woke heavy with a dream 
Of grandfather sage, reborn after fire. Gone.
Of swaying wildflowers. Gone. 
Did you see the portal in one of the oaks? Gone. 

On Thursday I fled to the desert
Hoping the vastness would protect my feathered heart
on land where we seem so fragile. 
But even coated in timeless dust
I will forever return
to mourn the medicines 
they might take from us.