Gull tracks on this beach are illusions to the eyes of flying
birds that are not there.
Memory recalls barbeque days, the back porch, cardinals and blue jays
still air and ear hear songs of
birds that are not there.
We visit her adoptive parents and sweep the leaves
a wind fights us to blanket the tombstone, covering
words that are not there.
I can only fill the plastic bag, offer a hand and say
words that are not there
Winter will strip the last yellow leaves off these trees, rolling us away
with the words and birds that are not there.