Small towns are held together
by petty strings webbed across
tree-lined streets. The luckiest,
like me, live at the edge of town
and can walk away.
Tonight, past yards, fields,
the farmhouse shrine to Mary,
barns, horses, then the meadow
where one white hawk glides.
Beyond him, one white plane
glints in late sun, with his thin
white contrail following like shadow.
Beyond them, half moon against
The dinner time blue sky.
White statue,
White hawk,
White plane,
White moon, keeping company
with the meadow and me, while I walk
till my feet and my eyes
remind me how to breathe
so I can turn toward town
ready to love it again.
