She has waited at the window
long enough to remember the first
low note the moon struck
against the dome of sky

She has watched the birds carefully
and named them in their motions:
loampluck, firespin, blackspire
and rainweeper. She tilts her head

to hear their answer when she whispers
their every turn, each kiltered wing
cutting the damp night air. She sings
to the phantasms of light: My sisters,

you leave me to breathe the absence
of your broken flights. I whisper
your color and you perch in the black
like the far moon. I mutter your sounds

and the silence of the stars impales
the night. I nearly uttered, once,
the swelling of your breast, the machine
of your taut wings, but the trees winced

and the wind fell idle around you.

She has waited at the window to peer
down upon the garden as the sun,
now chased by the far moon, spills
its cold fire upon the stone ravens.