The descending tone of a single prop

rises to a steady hum lost in atmosphere

I breathe – and again –

quieter, listen

three notes of a truck in reverse

three blocks away

warning transmitted even to me

the intention to go back

through blind spots

the first sounds of an SOS

injury is possible, listening for

what lifts off from the ground

or rolls back heavy as time

under the wheel

there’s much more I do not hear:

my breath repeating,

squirrel talons down walnut bark,

oak leaf scuffling over fallen copper comrades

to no avail, catching

the momentary lift

that slid the glinting plane out of view

carried the warning thrice intoned,

glancing to the courtyard

I forgot to mention

the breath I held

listening for you.