Her quiet presence
looms long
and lean—a shadow

cast nearing civil
twilight. Forty years
since she’s stood

before or beside
me, and still
I remember her

long hair the color
of unground coffee
beans. Her bangs. The fresh

laundered scent
she would leave behind
as she rode off on

her banana seat
bicycle through those wooded trails
behind our row

of houses. Some whispers
echo longer
into silver brilliance

than any shrill yelp
of a peacock at large.