Propelled by the power of loss, we drive
until black streets crossing green lawns
give way to open space,
to a place where the freshly bruised cheek
of the sky at dusk, swollen and pink,
presses against the grasslands. A scar
of lightning mars its face.
Awaiting the night’s arrival, we see
some movement in the field. The shaking of grass
like lashes, fluttering. Something taking flight.
— Amy Ash