Unwashed

Unwashed the inchworm that fell from half way up the pine in the field by the barn into my open mouth as I scanned the sky for oriels. I ran all the way home sure I would die sure I swallowed him whole. In those days I was sure of one thing: death. I was sure it waited in quiet fields nestled between the tall thin trunks of pines and under rocks beneath the bellies of snakes. I saw the possibility of the absence of all things in all things. In the beauty of a moment, the baby sparrow landing so near my seven-year-old fingers I touched him, the sweet stained smell of the manure pile and the dust from the curry comb after grooming. In all my moments loss waited, waits.