Sitting with me on my porch
over breakfast, Louise Glück
talks about impending death,
her sister going to a place 

where she could not speak. I listen
and look up to wave at a neighbor
trucking down his driveway, passing
my son’s pasture. There sheep

and goats graze, not thinking
of death, but separated from it
by a few thin strands of electric
fence. While we do our best

to keep our charges safe, we can’t
know how close we ourselves
are to the end—what might churn
in our bodies or be around a bend.

For this hour though, the air, dry
and cool, yields right-of-way to wrens’
exuberance. Safely at a distance, 
a vulture, mute, mimics Louise’s sister.