Moths

Three vultures sit throned
in the top of a dead tree by the road,
each wearing a blood-red crown
and black cape of feathers;
at their vantage the dark birds linger,
fat with patience and expectation.

Of course, death is always waiting
to happen here:

deer killed by a driver, stilled
skunk, furred and fragrant,
ditched coyote, fixed in its final grin.

Don't you, too, look out
for what's beautiful in the world
and also terrifying?

Once at dawn wind blew
with such power over the valley
oaks twisted and bent,
dry needles of pines scattered in gusts,
yellow leaves flew from their branches
as moths.

I, too, shed what was not essential
(clothing, hair, skin), the parts easily broken.
Made spare for grief or trouble, now
I'm left with only bones and a soul.

Listen: the wind showed me this.