She has walked these roads before,
these swollen pasturelands of life lived lush.
She still sees footprints from the last pass
through grass like cotton under calloused feet.
This time around she’ll not forget
to breathe, to sigh and, with the overflow
of air-filled moments sing the songs
even of the crows, nasty and loud, but present.
Severed, now, from her the times freshly gone
where dislocated streams interlocked their
watered journeys, cutting banks to spell
healing words, seen only from above.
The crows’ din, songs gruff, bloated and stifling
are replaced by her solitary voice,
wavering with quavers birthed in silence,
the symphony of her own breath.