Anne Guzzardi
She is a painter. She is almost blind.
But she can sense the dash of the brown bird
flying across the open lot.
She knows what’s there: spent Trojans, needles, glass,
the emblems of danger,
but that’s never frightened or distracted her
and she keeps her eyes where she knows there was a bird.
She can see what would be the plumes of acacia
and the bird trying to light on a rubbery wand near her;
she can feel the balancing act, although she can’t really see it,
and she waits for the sparrow to reappear — which it does – even to her —
this time on the iron of the railing next to her
she can make out the shadow, which is also like loss,
before it rises again, wobbles downward, and then up
to point its arrow toward the roof line –
right where the blank sky shows possibility –
and disappears.