by Gloria Viglione
I awoke with the birds.
Before the light permeated the sky
it illumined my question.
There you go
into your dawning
on your way to
Big Sky country.
I am here
with my moon
eclipsed by something
bigger than my heart
daring to ask how these
crossings are choreographed?
Was it only last year over coffee—
when I drank jasmine tea—
and you asked about my siblings
and I asked about your spirit walk,
and everything was on the table?
Then your eyes lit up with your
mention of Missoula’s Blackfoot,
and river stories fell from your lips like
glacial waters spraying over the falls, and
that day, I knew you were already gone.
This morning, with the birds
I am sharing the head of a pin with how many angels—
I cannot count.