Her Sound is Also an Asking Sound

The quips and quacks of a
slow-moving duck. Dark eyes
on the sides of her clicking
head. Paddle feet circling in
the black water of the North
Branch. And a broad concrete
pillar rising to the dirty underside
of Foster Avenue. In the water
she feels the vibrations of cars,
trucks, and buses—a stream
of grumbling humans
trying to get home.

Perhaps this is what prompts
her to announce in her matter-
of-fact animal language, and
to nothing in particular,
"This is how it is."

Salvation

Salvation is the churning cloud
that covers the sun for two days.

Salvation is the snow that comes down
in quiet fury and mounds in white
across the sidewalks and streets.

Salvation is the clear sunlight
of the third morning after the
blizzard. In the waking day
purple smoke wisps from the
tops of skinny chimneys. Below
them we move slowly in boots
and damp work pants, searching
for a different path.