On a dawn clipped at the forefront by noontide,
we spoke our last goodbye to them; stood in the driveway
waving till long after the rose petals had been
carried off by the wind.  Sharp crackles of static
from the power lines crept in amongst our mingled
words.  For once, their crinkled-paper rustling
eased the angst in our voices.  I watched
as your shoulders slumped, the lines around your eyes
growing prominent as you squinted into the
dull orange sunlight.  It reflected off your hair.
I still remember the way that the ebony glinted
with subtle sunset hues.  Each time you turned
your head, wisps of hair would rise from your
shoulders and flutter with the air like the wings
of a raven – a young one, perhaps, a fledgling
whose nubile bones and stubby feathers are so
fragile beneath the gentle angles of the sun.