He is not there,
has not been for an hour or more.
But the emptiness of Favalto is filled
with his promise, a rim of absence
brimming with presence.
I wait, heart-high,
for him to break the edge of stillness,
startle some near horizon, graph
of life leaping, dallying
with Paglaiolo’s ridge.
An instant – and he is there,
slipping the skyline’s guard,
falling pale as prayer across
the dross of earth,
steadying into the wind,
stalled, locked over lizard rocks,
effort-matched to air,
motionless with purpose,
crouched in bluster,
playing a fine-tuned game.
He tilts, slips a level, slips again,
lilting disconsolately
over scrub and juniper,
quartering the hillside,
collecting the silent rent of air.
Preyless, he casts off again,
careering Favalto’s face,
sailing cleanly over a dark land,
escaping horizon’s prison,
unconcerned with my waiting.