On the day when no planes flew
we lay an hour or two in the orchard,
looking up at the sky.
The same sky others watched for sunrise,
for when to hunt, or plant, for clouds.
A sky where gods were born
in the coming of too much rain, or too little.
And far off, the traffic’s low growl,
the tractor’s rattle across the fields.
What else was listened to under this sky?
The rumble of a quern stone,
the rasp of a rake, a shepherd’s call.
And further back the tick, tick,
of antler hammer knapping flint.
Hand and eye and body bent to the making.
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