By Nicole Collins Starsinic

what I know of loss

are the smallest things.

our three-year-old digging for sowpills along the shore,

his sister wading out to the small eddies,

past the wavering heat of the day

and the swiftly bending cattails,

to where the canyon wall

swallows the river in shadow

while we call

stop

come back

you're too far

but already she is out of earshot

legs lean from eleven summers of growth

moving swiftly against the current

so that the deeper she goes,

the smaller she becomes

and when we call out again,

more urgently

she turns,

shielding her eyes against the sun,

and waves

as her brother wades on the water's edge

calling plaintively after her

stop

wait for me

I want to go with you.

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