Through the day and into dusk,
six oaks guard the old family house
burning by the still river. Firelight
bounces off the unshuttered windows.
An urge of wind presses against
the panes, and the clink of glass rims
scatters from the back patio,
symphonic and relentless.
Everything we did in that house
—words rushing through the air,
hands pushing away the shadows—
rises towards the coming stars
with the light ash from the fire pit
like a flock of birds let loose.
Still the trees stand silent, on guard,
the highest limbs nodding slowly,
even as the sky darkens from pewter
to black, and a gull banks over the hill
calling to no one and everyone.