I wait for you in the hour of gold

when the breath in the cottonwoods will carry me your way,

and I hope you don’t mind my trail.

My skin, my face, my hair are fair like yours;

your earthen home, in fact, could be mine too

but for my lack of language.

Can you show me?

Fear not, though

I am your champion

moving through the grass to try and understand

a foxhole and a friendless kit.

The others have flown away

into the prairie, into the foothills, into the mountains

with wings you will never have

save human intervention.

There is a little something I left for you there

in the nook of uneven bark,

and I’d lke to think that the feathers I see,

and the rabbit leg bent like finger in the mire

might mean that you’ll be okay.

But for now, Boo Radley,

please poke your head out

so that you can look into my eyes…