Motion attracts me: the birds especially—
goldfinches dip and rise—musical
breaths of air push at the trees, boughs
bow and nod to say
happy birthday. Outside, I still celebrate
two dogs I buried under a fossil
from Virginia–trilobites preserved in the rock: bodies
buried, filled in. Truly, I don’t know
how it works, except that it’s miraculous
like the osprey circling without wingbeats,
calling to her fledglings. When I plant a seed,
green comes up, thin as an eyelash:
can you tell it is Spring?—a good season
to be born, I think, though the long dark remains
in my cells: this morning, I recalled
someone’s back turned—a lover’s (or was it Mother’s?)—but then
those bright winged bodies flew across the yard.