adventive

Not once did I walk that path alone, but
twice did I walk it with you.
On a dim little evening, we would
have forgotten the path altogether if the man with the falcon
hadn't come pattering down it,
a feather in his cap like he got left behind
by a few hundred years. And the bird
on his arm rubbed beak to leather wrist-band,
dropped feathers
and next to me you were breathing
breathing a thunder-wet wind on my neck.
I don't know where the man went,
but the breath all went back to your lungs. I
put a feather in my pocket and then lost it
in the wash. Didn't go back.
After all, it wasn't my path.