DAILY The hill behind the house lies bare On dark’s descending ride, Leaves a figure standing lone with the North East wind inside. She hesitates, then hears commands, Sounds of squadron pride, Silhouettes on sunset’s wing With the arc of the world as guide. She waits, as hopeful beacon In silent calling –“Come by here!” Desire fixed on longing Seeks communion peers. The left wing Sergeant feels her And shears the squadron’s tilt Close by to let her listen Wing spans sounding silk. ‘Whish, whish’, holding breath to hear Then lifting, soon are lost Leaving golden tears In exchange for heavy dross. For faith, she wakes before first light Eyes fastened toward the hill Willing God to land in feathered, squawking drill. Muscled breasts stretch landing glides, Sentries stand the guard, Others settle and abide To dream the coming ride. Too long they’ve lingered on, Knowing she cannot part. They wait upon the signal, Her hope in a willing heart.
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