Lean over the fence and
bend legs up on mesh - moss stile
and I’m there on hawthorn slope
and the cold air melts like
chocolate on my face.

And I slip down the rabbit’s path
to a space where five hundred
centuries elapsed below,
curved in the winter wheat and
water bent valley.
Rhythmic trees, black webs with
black crows like fat commas
break the sky.

And I ask, I always ask,
hold my palms up
and say “Help me, what shall I do?”
to the passing air.

And you’re there,
sliding down a wind above.
Rigid rust splashed wings and,
finger feathers spread.

You hold your perfect course,
draw energy from the sky,
and I wonder if the universe is
telling me to know
what you know.