Near at hand --
just across the autumn-flecked ravine
in yards of well-clipped brick homes --
in all-consuming strength of play
little voices rise in ignorance
of hushed diminishings of evening.
A dove breaks cover
pierces through the leafy veil
ascends the sky as one belonging so
as drawing all things up with it
in rushing strength of will
against the drag of aged woods' debris.
The children clap and laugh
beholding such a wondrous rising.
Upturned faces eagerly shine
as ruddy little suns flamed
by wings glinting of light in the west.
They would happily plume the air as well
in imitation of the fire-winged dove --
so taken are they by leaping delight --
but parents call them in with clipped cries
to darkened rooms and sleep
(and restless burning dreams).
