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13. The sun remains a yellow sail tacked to the sky. I am climbing air here. I am here in the open. The kestrel swerves. Its silent kerning. A stunning calibration of nothing. I’m left to see. 166

Bewitched When I look to the east I could not find you in the west where the light was dying you were not there northerly the sky grew pitch silence to the south there was only billowing Now to go over to greet the small wind as the huge blows by horn blind and feathered what is this former swaying this deep pomp beyond and waiting crouched and magnified Is the word a cunning bird even in new dark I will not be quiet, the feathering covering me 167

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13. The sun remains a yellow sail tacked to the sky. I am climbing air here. I am here in the open. The kestrel swerves. Its silent kerning. A stunning calibration of nothing. I’m left to see.

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