“For whom do you mourn?” I ask of her.
while we share the coffee, rooptops, treetops
this heavenly morn.
To move, no silky feather dared
no whisper of answers, only her omniscient stare
“Oh.” Said I in my morning gruff.
That, dear bird of earthly care,
that will do.
For this brilliant winter dawn
that will have to be enough.