In the Acequia of My Right Brain

the bird stands alone against a mud bank
in a shadow
one leg immersed in a few inches of murky water leaning
the other invisible beneath white feathers streaked with blood
a wounded snow goose
fragile and white bright against the clay

a beginning to an end I can’t won’t envision

how separate a wound can render us the vital need to lean
against a wall
below the sight lines of the living world imagining what’s next

how often now
in my mind’s eye
that wounded snow goose appears
my hands my thoughts then and now useless to wipe it away
assuage it
prevent the inevitable ending

the darkness that I
not the goose