The way the plovers cry goodbye.
The way the dead fox keeps on looking down the hill
with open eye.
The way the leaves fall, and then there's the long wait.
The way someone says: we must never meet again.
The way mold spots the cake,
the way sourness overtakes the cream.
The way the river rushes by, never to return.
The way the days go by, never to return.
The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.
— Mary Oliver, from Red Bird, 2008
September 1997
