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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