The hawthorn stripped, one red berry and one red leaf, the hawk’s cry exhausted in your throat, an accident of flight, down by the river, the jay mimicking a table saw, you slip your hand into a pocket of evidence, touch the ticket, a landscape of footprints and dark reliefs, your voice a branch repeating its leaved echoes, its wing’s dark edge, binding the hollow air, the body you’ve sketched beneath your lids, you look for the sky, vanished once again for a moment, then pirouette, drop the frayed ticket in the trash.