circles the bridge,
as if to signify a need, its arcs
nearly complete, dismantled
figure 8’s.

                    The river wrinkles
its reflection: like a shooting
black star aimed for its place
in an unfinished constellation.

Where is the flock?

Sky on the cusp of twilight,
the sparrow sweeps in the dark,
and your voice dangles from it,
my ears recognizing this much:

Son …

You were a man of few words
in life too.