You listened for her on the breeze
head tilted, hair feathering down,
called her name hoarse.  Walked on
hard trash-strewn soil adrift with sharp
pebbles, ground that had held her feet
moment by moment, perhaps held them still.

You sniffed the leaves as though her 
scent might be lingering, as though 
the earth had absorbed her and she 
had grown through the tree limbs and 
plunged into the blue sky. And now she 
whittled the puffs of clouds into circus animals: 
elephants with trunks upturned, lions, dancing horses 
riderless and pale, a seal.

You hold her voice to your ear as you might 
a soft hand.  The doves are freed at this orchestrated
juncture, winging above no soul at all.