Nostalgia

I remember
an open field
and my mother
she touches my shoulder
and points
she says -look up
you can tell if its a hawk
by the curls in its wings

I am being carried
with slow drifting sight
from the curl end
of her voice
into the sun

and
after 10 years
of travelling
the height of dreams
along the span of day and night
I recede from the backseat window
finding my self
curled
in the final
feather end
of her voice
holding me again
in open fields

As appeared in Descant, Vol 30, No 4, Winter 1999