In August,
Demoiselle Cranes
Stretch their slender necks
Above the dying grasses
Again, for the first time, or the last,
Preparing to throw their improbable lacework
Against the eternal teeth of the Himalayas,
The hawks, and hungry canyons,
Trembling wings, and purple storms,
Season after season,
For the distant emerald certainty
Of home.
In August,
Two hands often reach,
Hover on the uncertain breeze,
Brush palm to palm,
Fragile as paper kites
Against the long blue of the sky.
