We Don’t See Death Until After it Arrives

~ after "The Feathered Cloud" by Armando Valero

Even the blue-veined dragonflies in the grass
have heard his approach. The owls hold

conference among themselves, unsure
of how to break the news; their eyes,

soft brown and human-like, tell me
they know. The woman gestures, one hand 

near her lips and the other as if drawing 
a curtain aside. That's all we can really do

until the rider looms closer on the plain.
We can see the sparks from his horse's hooves;

then there's no mistaking his cloak of bitumen 
or his slate, marked with names and numbers.