Combing autumn,
by the waters under the ridge
where the wind stalls,
damp mornings I found her
riding the mist,
traced her soaring.
 
In freezing dawn I caught her
drinking by the cat-ice,
called hopeful but she
started from the sedge.
I loved the land:
knew where she might hide.
 
December dusks I searched,
never found where she slept
the starspun night.
Come icebound morning
I  would marvel, she would
scribe the sky.
 
New Year fields lay scorned
in scant amenity,
dour season of the daunted.
Softer days urged
April into May,
the time of yearning.
 
Arriving early where I used to go
I met her quartering the bluff:
she dived,
swooped to the tree
where she'd been waiting
these empty months.
 
She held me in her amber
iris of reproach,
gave a ruffling shrug,
then climbed the sky
in aerobatic absolution
of my fickleness.