Not long ago I read the following poem in Mary Oliver’s most recent book Red Bird.

We Should Be Well Prepared

The way the plovers cry goodbye.
The way the dead fox keeps on looking down the hill
with open eye.
The way the leaves fall, and then there’s the long wait.
The way someone says: we must never meet again.
The way mold spots the cake,
the way sourness overtakes the cream.
The way the river water rushes by, never to return.
The way the days go by, never to return.
The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

On December 20 I found out my father has inoperable liver cancer and has only weeks or months to live.

With Faith and With Feathers,

David