Bones Hurt When They Have Flesh on Them

Falls come suddenly. A kestrel's body
language, the flipping of a wing
that mimics a branch in the breeze.
But who mourns the loss of a mouse,
of a shrew. Sometimes an empty field
becomes beautiful in the escaping light
of evening. In hauntingly small lives
we assemble this loop, this curl, where
all flesh is not alike, where all shadows
mistrust the darkness, and all bodies rise
whether in a mouth or in heat.
An hour is a patch of night-time
on a hill, or the mirrors in the trees
that help the kestrel hunt. We arrange God.