A stone in the river

The bird wilted
A black and white petal
falling pendulous
Their tiny talons couldn’t grasp what happened
Held fast until the bloom arrived
and they switched open

A hole appeared in the snow
Feathers shielding the dimming furnace
and the snow
could not know
to melt

Behind my eyes
a bloom,
a state change

14 years old and my aim was penetrating
A pellet to the heart
that struck me silent as the snow pressed woods
The absence of that flitting life force
filled the forest
and emptied me

After years of stalking and stilling
sling-shotting and stone throwing
submitting to the cultural current
the Chickadee became a draped stone in the river
shifting the balance
inundating my vessel
with the shocking weight of care

The pointillistic composition that lay scattered in my young wake
as I sought to understand power and presence
ended that day
and the snow fell still

My photographs have been a slow monument
to the tiny bird quieted by my hand
as I try
to wash the bloom away
But there are parts of me I’ll never be able to reach
and won’t dare
because they map the river
and I’m still afloat.