Weeks after her death I came to the garden window
to marvel at sudden pale feathers catching, scattering
past the rainy glass. I looked for magic everywhere.
Signs from the afterlife that I was, indeed, distinct.
Beneath the talon of a red-tailed hawk a pigeon
moved briefly until it didn’t. The hawk stripped
the common bird, piercing its thick neck. Beak probing body
until I could see the blood from where I stood inside.