In Memoriam

The early morning’s low clouds, 
down from the mountains I always say.
Descending, a thin fog.
The resident hawk silent,
a scruffle of blackbirds in a tall pine
gathered—no chorus before
lifting off. Yet.
A slight flicker of a crape myrtle leaf—
a narrow branch of crabapple, the fringed tip
of a wisteria. Tremors.
No traffic sounds.
No dog barks.
A stillness of a certain kind,
a stillness seeming to us hard-earned.
And to the east—we wait. We wait.
The sun.
We wait.