i can slowly trace the changes-
the moment she picked up an almanac
and put structure around the future
she was a dead woman

now
assume she is you
her ideas threaded like dreamcatchers
embellished with feathers, beads
that sag their delicate threads

assume she is given bait
that she counts magpies
their cloud white throats a portent
that does not sit well around her neck

assume she will live her life
as these things expect