It sits on the fence,
dark plumage untouchable.
Its mottled self sets the pulse 
racing, confident of its power
eye to eye, unafraid
of long, loud lament,
part of the landscape
winged, a marvel lifting off.

Well-fed the grief bird lingers, 
lands again and again,
common as any goose,
plentiful. Give grief room to fly,
and notice where it lands
and when it leaves,
part of a flock
that visits in season
and does not expect
to be caged or tamed.