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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.