Beneath the sky, the earth moves slowly, passing, breathing the grasses, opening flowers of painful sun, each fold of dusk a chance to revisit what the deep becomes.

In the quiet of fall, come earth’s closing and cradling a bird sings. Between the notes, you remember the rise, the bloom, softly touching the dusk, keeping faith all night long.

What is a world without a sing? With hands warm from the making— a tapestry in color, it speaks like the wind.

• Muriel Rukeyser