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 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,
In midair between feather and skin
(With thanks to WB Yeats)