LEAVING

We walk from window
to window to see trails
of chrome yellow sparks,
how they arc and stream
across one another or
swerve in their travel
or shoot straight outward,
as if forsythia were metal
held against a grinding wheel.
Morning is the stone
that can sharpen our words,
but we speak of how the sparks
withstand the rain, aren’t cooled
but brighten against gray sky,
how the cardinal smolders
among the branches.
Where sparks should be
but aren’t, we say deer have browsed.
Where sharp words would be
but aren’t, we say look.