I am ghost

staring through the window
to the ground below

to shadows of birds of prey

to hawks at play

in silhouettes deflecting light…

I watch and wonder does the Sun seek
to bind the winged to the past--

does Mother chatter riddles
to capture flying bodies
inside darkened preform casts?

And, do they return
to search over ground they’ve once flown
seeking long-fled shadows
in the forever night

that covers all the broken bridges
like overgrown meadows
reclaiming all the quondam world
from encroaching sight?