for Miguel Hernandez You come over a slight rise in the narrow, winding road and the white village broods in the valley below. A breeze silvers the cold leaves of the olives, just as you knew it would or as you saw it in dreams. How many days have you waited fro this day? Soon you must face a son grown to manhood, a wife to old age, the tiny sealed house of memory. A lone crow drops into the sun, the fields whisper their courage.