Her song
draws a line in the air—
a black note on blue,
sharp as her eyes
and just as clear.

The dog halts.
The wind shifts.
Even the trees
lean back a little.

She’s not angry.
Just sure.
This stretch of fence,
this slice of sky,
the nest wedged
in that forked branch—
all of it matters.

She’s known loss.
You can hear it
in the edge of her cry,
the way it curves
before it lands.

When she lifts,
it’s clean and fast,
wings tight with purpose.

She doesn’t chase for sport—
only to remind,
some things are worth guarding,
even if it means
being feared
for a while.

Ryan Stone

This poem is from my latest collection, Love, and Other Ordinary Miracles.

Kindle version available on Amazon now.

Paperback out July 4th 🌻