The Bird

i. 
As if he understood the language of the birds, 
it was my brother who’d glimpsed it first: 
a dove resting on the branch above that spot

where we placed our mother’s ashes in the ground. 
Around us, sounds of an old, familiar hymn— 
Come home, come home—

Ye who are weary come home— 
and the bird paused. Time seemed to stop, 
turning into something not yet known,