When a mourning dove flies up from the land, the sky Only seems to embrace her. The erasure of color, of movement From the field, the shrug of wings— My eyes keep watch long after the bird Flies off between wave clouds. The panorama Pleases because it is not me. Does not possess Worries or regrets, does not listen to the news, Only negotiates with shining scraps of paper, The pine cones along the side road. I’m still staring After the stormscape—seeing emptiness as incessant As the mountains suffocated in fog— Ghost lives that alter over the time It takes to button a coat, adjust a shirtsleeve. We’re invisible to ourselves though we look For solace through floor to ceiling windows, Like through a profound and distant lake, I try to swim through the day. If I take in the morning landscape Like a vitamin or a psalm—can it Sustain me? My appetite for telephone pole And steeple, shoreline and shelter— Seems like a spell I cast on myself. Let me Be owl or otter, sea lion or serpent— Whatever it takes to still stay me.