An Open Eye

I passed the ravine a hundred times
but never saw the ravens, one
beak down in task, its mate
on a powerline or soaring
to take in what daylight brings
an open eye. Their nest,
a Pollock of thrown sticks
on the I-beam end of a bridge.
Mother feeding and unfeeding
three waxy birds.

Whoever chose that place
must have had the heart of a hawk
to know how flying begins
with instinct and becomes
what instinct sees:
the leap and quiet
that comes from
unexpected heights.

I think instinct made you
know I’d love those birds.
Their 39 calls.
And how one flew upside down
half a mile
to see what blindness sees
against a mountain sky.
Learned to call
in his mate’s voice
when they were separated
to repair what was lost.

I am not missing.
I hear the expansion
of bridge seams in summer
and the flapping
of invisible wings.
But I see better
through your eyes
the distance which drops
away before us
and the heart
that has a mind
of its own regard.