The wind stirs, sings,
tosses the branches of budding maples,
carries six circling hawks
high, higher, above the hill.
I hear the call of the hanging chimes
making music behind the house,
and step into the open yard
to feel the breath of the world.
At the edge of the garden,
the old prayer flags
feel that breath,
flap wildly in a sudden gust
and send peace sailing out
into the restless evening.
--Timothy Haut, March 16, 2016
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