after Eugenio Montale’s “Dora Markus”

There was no wooden bridge, 

no river where we parted:

a stream of taxis yellow as daffodils, the air tasting of smoke. 

With a wave of your hand

you pointed to the city of brick

where an old man, almost motionless at the window, awaited your return.

Your sadness made me think of a winter morning when so many yellow birds arrived

that they filled all the trees in all the woods

that stood behind my father's house.

I spent the day shoveling snow 

from the neighbors' walks,

thinking and thinking about hundreds and hundreds of yellow birds.