She is studying the place where flies
have gathered to lay their eggs, eyes sinking
into the belly of a fish. She’s investigating
life with the point of her stick, one small flick
and the universe is over. The trout returns
to the pond belly up, floats, turns
and now is a boat to be guided
by six year old currents. When done
she’ll gather the flat stones from the shore
bury then unbury the dead, look for signs
of movement or change. It does not matter
that everything is dying. Last week
two wings beat in her hand then
stopped. She does not know
that the round song of her body
will straighten. All around
the world is open like a cut.