If Only

In upstate New York there's a steel trestle bridge in a little 
mill town—it's supposed to be the very place from which

George Bailey, on the brink of bankruptcy or arrest 
on charges of embezzlement or both, wants to fling 

himself into the dark waters of oblivion. But he sees
someone who appears to be drowning, forgets what

he was there to do, and saves this character instead.
It's not important to me whether this is an actual

angel on a mission, or a feathery hallucination. He can simply  
be a moment or plot device which enables the consideration 

of other ways the story might have gone, if only—
I wonder about such things too: how do I know 

the choices I've made haven't led to consequences 
for others also connected to me? If I drowned in that bad 

marriage, would my children be less anxious or depressed 
or bipolar— if I hadn't left it? I get that one is not the only 

actor in their narrative—others play a part as well. Still, 
an idea of life is not the same as its living. Living as we do 

in our bodies, we're awash in the unruly swell of feelings: 
how they wheel, cluster, or swerve, starlings crazed 

with their own intuitive longing for synchronicity and 
company. I too thought a murmuration meant only

the collective movement their wings made, a thousandfold 
stroking the sky. Perhaps it's more to do with calling, 

and how it's answered. If but one bird faltered 
in its flight, don't those closest to it feel the change, 

until it ripples throughout the flock? I know I'd want you 
and you and you and you to reel me in, though I may be only

one erratic bit of graphite keeling to a magnetism 
that holds us all in thrall, beyond our power to control.