A whole flock of waxwings occupied the holly, feasted on the berries,
As as if a single brush stroke, the flock lifted, banked, settled in the Bradford pear,
Only to rise, to retrace the curve back to the holly.
Rilke says, “Even forgetting
Has a shape in the permanent realm of mutation.”
Even, I wonder, the forgetting of the memory of having forgotten?
—Eric Pankey, from “Small Confessions” in Reliquaries (Ausable Press, 2005)