In my country

the dead return—

hawk-headed guardians

settle close

so I might know

their careful watching,

their pure breath.

In my country

the dead return

on blue winds at dawn

to snow laden perches

to the broad boulder in the field

to the blossoming apple tree in the orchard

to the charred top of the twice-struck pine.

As the day dims

they leave me.

They do not travel far.

They will never be far.

Published in There's a Thread You Follow.