Whether it was old wood
or metal, it did not matter: it was the flight
that was important, the escape
and redemption of a sky over the house
where she’d grown up, the shed
where she sometimes hid
in the middle of the night, watching for
raccoons. She found a baby one, once, dead
next to a pair of bushes. She’d held it
close, surprised at the coarseness
of its fur, the skeletal look
of the side of its thin face. The eyes
were blue underneath the lids, too young,
the tongue almost white
behind its teeth. Gently, she put it back
where she’d found it, her hands
locked beneath its small weight, touching
the dew-tipped grass, for only
a moment, but it stayed with her. She knew,
even in flight, that it would, but that she could forget
other things, or at least put them
at the distance of clouds.