from the tops of the pines,
a rush of wings with the sound
of broken shells
slipping in the salt wash.
Shift into high,
lean into your shadow,
rounding the bend with the wind in your mouth,
red barn a blur.
Suddenly there, panting beside you,
Good buddy Huck, who loves to keep pace,
tongue of a farm dog flopping with joy,
hot from a chase across windrows of oat straw
gleaming with the intermittent sun.
And you ride, and you ride.
Back at the house,
a stranger on the porch
come to clean the furnace,
now that the maples are dropping some leaves.
In the cellar you learn he is skilled at his trade.
He knew your daughter, in the same class,
surprised now to hear of her fate in Manhattan
a decade ago.
You study his face,
he seems far too old,
and for the first time you see
how she could have taken on years,
And when he packs up his tools,
and his panel truck vanishes over the hill,
its dust trail settling into the cornfield,
you are more alone.
