There’s a quietness
in their rumbling, over the mountains,
turquoise openings breaking the dark.
The horizon lines resettling at dusk.
An expanse of stares you can hear,
knees of air drawing their routes,
pushing on always one more sinew.
You want them to stay for the night,
their violet grinding will enrich
the pattern of hedges in the field,
their vast muttering will be a blanket
you’ll lie spread out under, trimming
gravel and grass for sleep.