Between sand and sky

boots crunch on the sandy soil
the dog's collar jingles as he
runs silently over the dry grass
wind whips across the hill
snatching the sounds of breathing —
carrying the shrill scream of a hawk

a high, sharp silhouette
solitary against the clouds
lit by the lowering sun
banks of cream, rose, lavender, grey
where the hawk writes poems
upon the closing of each day

I whisper to the ground, to the wind
to the hawk, to the sun
and if and when our boots
may fall together on some path
the wind knows, as we all will know
somewhere between sand and sky