Visit
for Cynthia Rose
On the banks of the Rio Pueblo
just above Tres Ritos
my wife asked for a sign
from her mother.
In moments
an iridescent humming bird
appeared in front of her face,
her spoon-shaped wings
rapidly scooping
the thin mountain air.
They looked at one another
in the filtered light of morning,
in the absence of time, then
her mother, as humming birds will do,
left in a line
diagonal to this world.
