i spot it as i turn the corner,
face now close-hauled to the wind
which hisses through the brittle grass
–that thirsty, golden ocean–
chilling the sweat on my forehead.

unmissable it seems to hover
in that cold and brilliant gasp of blue
until it banks, the soars.
its rigid wings not flapping once,
it rides the swells of air that crash upon the slope.

it does not stray too far:
its master, seated on the ridge
(a folding nylon chair, begrudging nod to leisure)
mutely draws it back each time,
the creance never seen.

my breathing slows.

i watch this undead thing in its diomedean flight,
and feel quite sure that it will go on gliding, hungerless,
surveying all these tousled prairie waves
until the end of days.