she treats leaving like a grief she must accept
        mourning for menial loss, when no life has been lost
                a circumstance, a choice, a little bit of both
       the flow won't be stopped;
                sure, dampened and maybe sputtering,
                            but the beams that held up her roof
                       are no longer there
                            and she doesn't know what will get her first:

                            the rain
                            the snow
                            the weasel
                            the melancholy.