In the first light of the first day of Autumn
She slides in the air above the boulevard
That skirts the wetlands of Los Angeles:
The poem appears. “A windhover,” I say aloud.
Silently flying but herself unmoving, a master
Worker of the Santa Ana winds: With little
Adjustments of flesh and feather, will find
The perfect resistance.
One of her kind
Inspired the words she now evokes in me,
Writing to you, the literal line and simile
Settling down together for a chat; an echo
Of an echo of a voice, flesh-made words,
Words made flesh—having been seen, both of us, Being.
