There’s a storm already brewing,
asphalt waiting for a shine,
a string of lights all set to spill

and bleed as watercolors
only one of us will see.
But I am wholly unprepared

to be the oldest generation
looking down at where I was,
then up to see a clearing sky

and grief that hovers calmly
like a kestrel waiting, waiting,
for a time and place to swoop.