it was never meant to last,
this life, though we tell ourselves
we’re different, though we tell
ourselves we matter. But the planet
is patient. And the sky is older than that.
The bones in the exhibit hall are proof.
Still, as I drive the seven hours to home,
I am careful to stay in my lane,
careful to miss the dead lump of what once
was a bird, to use my turn signal,
to wave thanks at the truck driver
who let me into the flow.
It may not go on forever, but
for now there is this chance
to learn about communion.
There is this chance
to see just how generous
we can be with these drying bones.