In the music box a wooden angel spins,
making her own weather.
Near the riverbank where we
buried the gulls I light a candle
and wait, patient as a hunter detecting
what wind will do
in foliage. Someone,
somewhere, will see it.
The flame glowing like a toy sun
or a trick God.
If we did not go back
we’d be kinder.
The wind forces the fire out
and I leave only to return
to this river where the gulls
rise, small white banshees
oiled in music.
by Carlie Hoffman
