I heard your news. There were birds
on the twigs of the sycamore today
where the spring has cracked the buds
to ease new leaves into the wind.
The sun was playing catch-me
with the clouds, who roiled images
of battles across the canvas. I kept
a photo of you from your war days
by my computer; I can look at it
while I type, but I never knew you
then and this fight will take
your breath away, too soon.