Spanish moss curtains 
drape over branches of old oak trees and 
bald cypress knees peek out of the silt by the bayou. 

Palm fronds frolic beneath the canopy as 
cicadas warn of darker days
when the flood threatened to whisk them away.

This is where I come to preen my feathers, 
to pull the ticks from my flesh, 
while the coyotes' playful yelps lull me to sleep.

This is where I fledged. 
This is where I'll expire. 
Maybe this is my home after all, 
nestled in a bend of the Brazos.

He said He was leaving home. 
He said, "Father Sky
has not been kind to me."
He said, "I do not 
send letters anymore,
I forgot the address."

He kept seashells 
in His pockets but 
never answered the worried
phone calls from Mother Ocean.

He had a map but 
did not know how to read it. 
He coughed up a broken compass. 
West was any direction
away from Kansas City. 

So, we drove.
We sat under redwood shadows
where Father Sky couldn't watch.

We made love to the light of the stars.
He said this made His Father angry.
With the sunrise the strong winds
chased us further away.

We visited the Mother Ocean.
He submerged himself, and let her
rinse salt through wounds
left by the Father Sky.

Once, it rained.
So we danced and we 
celebrated the Father Sky's grief.
I wondered if the water meant 
the Sky missed his son. He said,
"My Father cannot feel remorse."

The next day, the home I built in Him was empty. 
He left a letter with no return address. He said, 
"I'm going home."