and below the breastbone where
There is an old woman looking out a window.
There is a newborn child
held by its mother.
There is a mother holding
her child that will never be born.
There is a woman wading in a stream;
there is a puddle up to her knees.
There is an urge to throw things out.
An empty cage
A singing crow
There is what I believe myself to be
And there is all that I do not yet know.