The sixty-ninth year is coming upon me

Since first I made to count.

Still the self-same hawk circles over,

Or another in its place,

.

Skimming clouds overhead, watching

My old bones and eyes.

She disappears a moment into the sun

So that I can remember the first,

.

When we met, midway between earth and cloud,

And touched,

And recognized one and the other,

In midair feather and skin.

.

Unwearied still, she ranges beyond my eyes,

Stopping only to spark a dream or

A recognition, or better yet,

A reminder,

.

In midair between feather and skin

.

.

(With thanks to WB Yeats)