from the silence and elm shade,
a familiar couple, the Canada
geese, the only living residents
here, totter near the pond,
their white-scarfed jowls
bobbing in unison.
Flexing expansive wings,
they appear to hover, bottom-heavy,
rising slowly in tandem, husband
ever so slightly leading, his body
suddenly struck—no cry
or sound save the dull thud—
neck broken, blood
from a ruptured breast. The car
flies away. Leaving your grave,
its grass warm and thick
and fairway green, I climb the hill
that leads to the far gate.
Elaine Wilburt lives in Maryland, USA, with her family where she likes to bake bread, read, and quilt. Her poems have appeared in The Cresset, Little Patuxent Review, Heart of Flesh, and Wales Haiku Journal, among others. Forthcoming poetry and fiction will appear in Heart of Flesh and Edify Fiction. Last year, she received a 2019 Creatrix Haiku Award.