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.