A girl murmurs a blaze
of words. She speaks to trees,
backlit congregation, to herons
bent like priests at a river,
alert, alien, catastrophic.
Her new language is soldiers
in willows, gear nested
like mixing bowls. Hares
watch the clatter with sour eyes.
Squirrels, ravens, crows.
The whole dark bestiary,
murderous. Hooks, teeth,
silk of hair stirred by wind.
She is almost a woman.
She takes money, hands
men bottles. Bits of plastic
drop from their fingers,
spinning like tinsel. She
watches the twirling and
dreams of flying. Bright
tankards, bottles of water.
Soldiers shift to nothing
under her wings of dark hair,
her silent, lifting wings.
