Driving out of Indiana,
I keep seeing you waving goodbye
from the front door,
and Dad no longer at your side.
As we pulled away from 
the house where I grew up,
there was quiet in the car;
now, there are noisy efforts to forget.
My son is counting hawks
through the car window.
We are returning to our lives.
Please change your mind;
please come live with us.
I don’t want to make another
long drive back to Indiana,
counting hawks
through the car window,
some perched on wires,
some circling in the sky,
and each one bringing us closer
to a dark and silent house.