As if God kicked her
from the lip of Heaven,
she falls.
Talons spread,
she cuts the dawn
with her body.
She should slice the lake,
wrap the trout
in the hard bands of her claws,
be off and away, leaving
silent circles
behind her body.
She falls. Misses.
Grace gone,
she flounders.
Brown-and-white wings
flailing unsleeked—
a terrible bundle
fighting to free herself.
Look: she shakes off
the clutch of the lake, rises
into daybreak.
I will walk back to our home,
rouse you from sleep.
Ask for pardon.
