As he turned back to the village he saw Ruth get to her feet. She was staring into the distance. And then he heard it. A far cry. A familiar cry. Ruth searched the skies, a veined and bony hand at her throat clutching the blue cardigan. The sun broke through a small crack in the clouds. The embittered old poet turned her face to the sound and the light. Straining to see into the distance, something not quite there, not quite visible. And in her weary eyes there was a tiny dot. A glint, a gleam.
