Sometimes a Vision from a Future Comes

Winter: 
but then my husband beckons
me to the window, and points out two
bluejays in the naked maple.
And we woke
to a flurry of crows descending
from the roof to the neighbor's backyard,
every single drab-coated one a kind
of leaf or blossom shaken from
some dark canopy.
All the days
we used to reckon into calendars,
all the nights we chalked by stars
we loved to mistake
as signs.
I turn away; I don't
want to see where they go,
who goes last,
or how far.

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