Last Tuesday your prediction came true: four cranes
winged across my windshield. The second quartet
trumpeted across six lanes of traffic, 7:23am,

diesel and coffee fuming my interior. Crossing
into Polk County, long necks poured into a shallow ditch,
a chick standing near. Exit 33: a swallow-tailed kite

clipped the tree line; tractors rolled up a tract
of hammock like a ball of spun wool.
A low arrow of cormorants pointed toward Key West.

Crepuscular fields and trees drifted in fog. I glimpsed dark
forms on a fence and squatting in the grass—vultures
before thermals lifted them: a scene from Inferno—

what circle?—etched by Doré. Near Orlando, ibis chevroned
over a Chevron sign. Hot-air balloons
hung on a gold & vermillion horizon. Feathers and fog

rose. The radio, noting floods, fires, earthquakes, recited:
Find again the world of light. Red sun touched
green earth, black tread, osprey, overpass; I wanted to talk

to you, dear dead friend, my eyes filling softly sapphire.