And There Is Many a Good Thing
I went back to Dagger Point Trail
after she moved to Baton Rouge.
A plaque at the point says the sea
takes back five inches a year,
but the sand and shells, the same
live oak still crowned the hills.
I remembered the redtail tearing the rabbit
on the path before us,
wings half-spread, eyes
like sunlight. Linda stooped for a stone,
but a finger to my lips
and a short nod stopped her.
We sat in the dust until the hawk finished.
She drew circles within circles,
leaving only room for a point, like a target.
She laughed when I said she was working against
infinity, and asked me if I thought the rabbit
was the beginning or end of the cycle.
I said, Neither, and Both.
At the top of the hill
live oak thinned and we saw buzzards
descending on what little the hawk
had left. A collared lizard
stretched on a stone.
It scampered into shade as I stepped toward it.
Tilting the canteen, she splashed water
into her mouth and over her face.
She shook drops from her hair
and arched her head back,
eyes closed, smiling at the sky
like she’d broken surface after diving deep.