Some days the clouds pass in echelon, regular as a hearbeat.
Someplace upwind energy pools in the auricle,
a bundle of hiss waiting to signal a contraction.
Enough energy pools and the lifeblood bubble upwards,
leaving a void.
The energy pools in the auricle, ready to repeat.
Those who soar know this cycle.
The auricle might be a darker field, a rock, a stock pond.
The dome above fills and bubbles, fills and bubbles.
The time seems geologic compared to the time of the heart,
but the glider pilot holds his ear against his lover's chest,
waiting for the heart to beat again.