My grandmother wore white, the color of mourning,
All my life she made this no-color tangible.
 
She told my father to give me everything & more:
If she asks for a horse you must give her a horse.
 
In the morning light an Arctic native flies to its trainer
from a mount, across the sand to a reward of dead meat.
 
Its black tracking antenna is clipped to white feathers,
It must not feel the weight of the all-blue sky, but I do.
 
It kicks its claws in the sand, shouts out falcon sounds.
On the gauntlet it won’t meet the eyes of anyone
 
Standing closely. Such beauty is hard to look at.
The danger of being visible both day and at night.