Woman becoming bird,
bird becoming woman?
Does it matter?

Are we not cousins
to crow, crane, hawk,
egret?

Are our arms not growing
feathered, our bones
becoming hollow,

readying for flight?
Have we not felt the wings
we’ve grown, lifting?

Yes, we rise as omens
of good fortune,
of the fruitful hunt,

of humanity’s well-being,
we winged spirits
utterly transformed

into something substantial,
something lighter
than air.

(For Isabel Stenzel Byrnes, who flew today into mystery, with my love
and admiration for her remarkable life.)