Water, Wings

I have just finished reading a book 
on autumn— on the ways it alters
the quality of light and teaches

about different kinds of goodbye.
And though I grew up in a country
where three-fourths of the year

is scorching summer, now I know
I too must have come to learn
of autumn early. And it is

a country where many are always
leaving: which means there are
as many or more left behind.

But after having left, what then;
after being the one that stayed?
News of another world

still arrives at your door or flies
through the wood at dusk toward your
windows. At night if you set

a clear bowl of water out where
light can strike it, in the morning
you might find on the surface a few

transparent wings— proof nothing
ever stays the same; is always saying
no, trying to change what's given.

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