Twenty-Four

Slip knot between one year and another. It’s like falling
through water. Today, I watched a vulture circle high

above the river, beak tilted at the sun, winding her way
to the coastline. She moved through clouds stretching

long to the horizon. What will happen tomorrow? 
I thought I’d find answers out west, in mountains

or movement, but I only got good at walking 
through weather. I thought I’d know the creature

in this body by now: her red hair and moods, the ache
stuffed in her chest, her changing mind. She wants it all

vibrant and green. I thought I’d get lucky again. Instead, 
I return to the store for cartons of eggs. I scrape frost

from my car in the morning. I scroll the news online
at night. The dog wants out and I let her. Someday, 

years will loop together and I’ll bundle them around me
in December. Someday, I will fall asleep in a meadow

with wind moving wild and steady. Grass stirring 
in a dust-blue haze. Until then, take my hand. Walk beside

this river with me. Let’s throw rocks through the surface
and wait for the splash. Let’s stop and stare at the sky, 

at her wandering clouds, her black-winged birds moving
as we move: endless and onward, heading to the sea.