We’ve spent the day in the rest home with my friend’s mother in the layered silence where she lies near death. The air inside is like marble on her mother’s face and bare arms. Such a journey cannot be imagined, who knows where it will lead, one thing flowing from another.

Outside, the wildflowers are bright and the river warm, mallards and ducklings in formation. There’s a faint rustle in the leaves—the death wind of this ready world where, if only things had panned out another way, this day would be like any other. But it does not go away, though forgotten, left unattended, dismissed for a while.

peace rose—
this morning
may be her last

herons
out of sight
marshland

summer clouds
pierced by sunlight
gulls on the wind