Hot, but with a breeze,
and the breeze carries something
faintly seen. Small glistenings
against the pines. It is the
day’s zenith, and the summer’s.
A goldfinch sways on a thistle
in a fold of field.
He sows the slow
currents of air and the seed
floats down to where we are.
Our last child has been set
loose from me. She drifts,
content in her swinging seat,
her hands rowing through
leaf shadow. Just weeks ago
she arrived—borne along
like all of us, sailing
her little craft of breath
and bone into this restless,
airy realm. Her first night
I listened as she learned
to breathe, unsteady
rhythm of inhale
and exhale interspersed
with squeaks and snuffles,
her palm's-width chest
first pistoning, then barely
stirring under my light hand.
One moment she is a solid,
fierce mass, radiant
with her own, internal heat,
and the next she is
light as air, asleep
in a loose curl on my chest,
rising and falling
on each breath.
Floating, turning, gone.
Thistledown quivers
over the gully, falters
over Queen Anne’s lace.
Rising, it disappears against
the bright sky and then
reappears, eddying at the far side
of the field. Far, farther—
almost too far to be seen.