On the other end, five,
maybe six rings. A long hallway

cushions the light feet of our beloveds,
our lost, as they trot toward the only receiver,

but they have no impatience — remember that.
So much to do outside the high windows —

they fill their mouths with soft grass and yellow buds.
The day many hours longer there. Rabbits everywhere.

Our calls always recognized — faraway tingles of sound —
and then they move quietly to answer, no rush,

our calls one part of days and days brightly unending,
one more thing to fill their heads — our small flutters

in some forgotten tongue.