I have been counting the swallowtail butterflies. There are more than I ever remember. 3 days ago there were 3, and on that same day there were 9 turkey vultures hovering over the Canadian border as I waited my turn at the tolls. 3 for joy, 9 for endings.
The first-ever flicker at my bird bath, the cardinal, close by and beginning his molt, singing for all he was worth. The profusion of mourning doves. The singular bat.
I sat in the back, in the hot wind last evening. There were no birds, no bat. Only the winds of change blowing over me, long past dark.
She is leaving.
She is leaving me.
There is the mess of my heart splitting open as we walk to the border holding hands, waiting on the profusion of birds that signal final flight.