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At Sixty

That line where birds, exhausted, cross

a threshold, winter at their back,

or the joyous din of summer before them.

Where, along the sixtieth parallel,

the resonant voice of the fiddle trembles

on a northern palette. Hanging on in

to three score years is listening for that line,

another season of song. It’s pushing

against the door, lifting the latch, taking

the fiddle down and tuning what’s left to make

the notes. Fingers reach further, grope gently

the missing string, tempt out the melody.