After His Diagnosis

Weeks after ice-out, last fall’s leaves make a pathway to the lake, radiant blue and still deathly cold. I press my hot forehead to the window, smudging it. Blow and the glass steams. As if looking at a photo through parchment, I’m detached, the way I saw his body in the CAT scan from a foggy distance. I’d like to open the window, release a wounded bird nursed to health. Wiping the glass with my sleeve I see white pelicans wheel and flash in the sky.