Tonight, like an early solstice, the sky swings open,
the stars grow fierce,
and a chill wind rises in the sycamore,
keening among the dead and dying leaves
as it marries the cold to the dark.
Where I live, house after house
turns on its lights;
but on this wind, an owl
in a midnight pine forest
calls across twenty years
because I will not leave the tent
and walk barefoot through the trees
to find her.