Dawn Poem

by Sharon Thesen

The obituary is done. Its incompleteness
is a large part of the announcement, the long words
of mourning floating around unsaid —
interment, resurrection — the drone of hopes
of an afterlife crammed with possessions and relatives.

Or was it the birdsong that all of a sudden
was so noisy in the trees when I asked you to say something
to me from out there, up there

or is it me who’s in another world now?

You became birdlike yourself.
Your nose an unfamiliar beak, your white hair
sticking up.

I wonder if the feeder still swings from the porch,
and if your friend the crow who lived in the tree
across the street is still waiting

for you to come outside with a bag of bird seed
and shoo him away, trusting he’ll return
momentarily, as they say.