The higher in the sky, the more cause 
to wonder what has called this flock 
of turkey vultures to spiral upward 
coasting the thermals until some spent 
thing calls them down to Earth again.

And yesterday on the road’s edge
what bird lay there, body splayed
from a collision with an unexpected
obstacle? I almost stopped to confirm
that its barred feathers looked hawk. 

I used to collect all manner of feathers, 
lay them out on the mantel in a family
of stones and shells, and later on my 
dresser at the base of the photo of my 
late husband, a man who loved birds. 

These days, I no longer stoop to pick up 
gull, crow, blue jay, dove, or those tiny 
nameless fluffs along the way. And I have 
discarded any older ones—dust-gatherers 
in a house already filling with dust.

Yet I still crave to feel bird-flight raise me 
into the void, seek out the songs, squawks,
and cries that call me to translate—even to 
chirp or whistle back as I briefly become 
bird, hoping for an answer. 

A simple ride with new binoculars can lift
my spirit—as a blur of white on the horizon 
becomes ibis, a red flash under a black wing 
shouts red-winged blackbird, and five crows 
bathing in a puddle splash me with laughter.

When he puts it on my father is a beast
in the dark of our driveway, half man, half other.
Blackberry, the little dog for whom he performs,
barks in high-pitched yips,
runs madly around him, 
never coming close enough to bite.

They both know it is a game, played out
across the scraggly grass,  
or in wild circles through dead leaves.
The harsh noise issuing
through the snake-like appendage
dangling from my father's nose
is laughter, mixed with growls.

I stare at the gas mask, feel my nose sting,
imagining the poison it might protect us from,
the swirls of smoke. 

At night in the moonlit yard
my animal father has come from the woods
to terrify a small dog.
He bends over, swaying from the waist,
his large hands menacing. 
His trunk skims the ground,
brushes the dog's back.

When she tires of it the dog collapses.
She has barked herself hoarse, 
and now lies panting, eyes still rolling
to follow him.
She has ended the game,
although he does not want to let it go,
wants it to last until he falls into the grass,
ripping the gas mask off 
his naked face.

He turns to us then, my sister and me,
stumbles toward us flapping his arms.
We scream, run giggling up the porch steps
into the house.

After he has put the mask away,
after he has stood in the dark garage 
until he can breathe evenly,
he joins us.
We sit in the living room, 
and he tells us again and again
how it was out there,
how the dog went crazy,
it was so much fun!

I drive along River Road each morning,
come to the bend that crosses the Passaic
which today floods the yards of nearby homes.

In long ago photographs taken on this riverbank,
a small girl in overalls sits on the roots
of a tall tree, smiles at a dapper young man 
holding the camera, waves at a slim young woman 
in a flowered dress.

They have been out for a Sunday drive,
have picked this charming spot
to frame their toddler daughter
and themselves.

No way of knowing then that I would pass it daily,
want to stop the car and stumble down
the stony slope to stare into the water
until I see those three

on that autumn day of little wind 
and bright sun on the pale, floating leaves.