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First the flash of a hawk the space between air
and earth narrowing, something breathless in its twist
as it dove (autumn sun through rust hued feathers)
to disappear in the dark collapsed grass. An echo of color
scuttered across the road—a maple leaf end-over-end
against four o'clock sky—close to the ground, fast,
just a glimpse. Now in the night garden amid roses
guarded by armies of thorns, the dog prowling dark
for the hide-and-seek cat, I stand listening while you sleep
with all the distance of your fears inside you
and the long roads of loss, crossed and re-crossed
by slow caravans of hope. I listen
to the worn harness and buckles and bells fade
in the distances we live with—the hunger of the poor,
the war scorched cities. I listen for the steady cricket song
of the heart's secret, the broken stumbling scuff
of our reaching wings.