They send emails, telling us not to ask about casualties

so ev’ry night ends, more or less, the same:
a subtle, blue heron stands erect at the bank
of a retention pond, legs anchored in thawed
slush & shushes to hear a gray squirrel rustle
in nearby brush. I roar my eyelids heavy.
Midnight moon yawns back at me
& I open eyes to a hollow memory
of the blue heron who flew away
without a splash of water or wing flap. It hurts
to wonder what happens to people who fly
away—without a sound: a sound that rings
thousands of miles away, over jetstreams
& airwaves—while the ones who could
save them, don’t.

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