Wings clipped, losing plumage, 
snowy egrets slowly shuffle and roll into
dining commons or elevator gateways to 
private rooms with panoramic views;
hunched, visages downcast,
faintly lit eyes cautiously 
inspect carpeted, linoleum, hardwood floors 
before each two, three, six-legged step.

Many spotted like leopards, they 
wait for something secret, someone special to
lift them from twilight, 
bring on rainbow radiance:
a movie, card game, nostalgic song, 
soap opera, any thrill—anticipating 
visitors who left their sides 
only two minutes earlier, a lifetime ago.

Confusing the living and deceased,
confiding in familiar strangers more often than 
friends and family whose faces mirror names 
dropped from shriveled lips—some 
carelessly adorned in scarlet paint—residents linger
puzzled, bewildered, uncertain who 
they’ll be grieving, honoring, missing at
the Sequoias’ next memorial.