Learning the Loss
for Len Roberts

You were already gone,
... the black wings landed ...
before I left for Africa.

On return, despite a cloudless sky,
the news gnaws
under my rib cage

like that cheetah I saw
eating an impala,
face bloodied,
sound of teeth on bone.

Only eight months before,
the gold of your smile,
warm conversation

as we spoke of writing
about fathers, brothers, snow --
our tragedies touched upon --

we understood the romp
through sunlit savannah grasses
is brief -- vultures waiting

in acacias, as now one passes
overhead -- wings still, outstretched --
chilling the air. You are dead.

Your words return
light and quiet as snowfall
to console: ... death is as natural
as the oncoming dark.

A plane crosses, a slender coffin
carrying passengers somewhere,
sound trailing after.