waiting on the line
There’s a devastation of goslings outside the window. I watch one die, black webbed feet startling until the mother-goose turns and leaves the gosling’s side which is how I know, just seconds after the mother-goose. Someone stops and asks a lodgepole pine why it has chosen this particular place to live. That’s in another time but lately I’m losing track. Longing has its own time. Grief has another. And I’m somewhere in the tumble of both.