Poem for Bruce from late April

CONDOR

In my genetic line, we are
stricken like bells
or an unseen sword comes to top our branches
the feeling is of conflagration; the hot heart
stops still in horror; in vain, firemen scale the walls

but your family dies cold, from a squeeze-vine
a congealing, a clotting and withholding, a coagulation
like spring mud turned hard under horse's hooves

and I suppose there are families that die like air
much more is known of the deaths by water.

Going through the process with you,
like your tray-table, a fixture at your side,
I'm only watching the sun come out
after last night's thunder

drying your mud into dusty trails
where big birds bask.
You look out, tan and dusty
where earth meets sky
as each operation brings desiccating dawns

and I am yours
your solidity
for your ever
for each day's flight

among the red rocks, the arroyos
of condor-country. what a wing-spread

you display, as you unfurl
for takeoff from the cliff-edge
across the radiant canyon.



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