There’s a slender, yellow-eyed branch at the edge of the path. I pretend not to notice though he is close enough to touch. Someday I may come upon his change and will carry feather twig and hollow bone to the water. Offer what’s left to the eagle. Cross that strange line again. But then I see a second, silver-grey shadow or ghost, wings fanned, hopping awkwardly in the understory. She says, “No. We are not broken. We are something else.”
This morning watching for signs, I hear the thin chain ticking like a clock. Moon after moon, we wander.