The Ring of Brodgar blazes
in the thin north island air
and Orkney seems to draw
lines across the henge diagonally
through a circle in spacetime.
The kilted Scottish clan
who made it to American,
whose hands cut these stones,
circle back to sun and home
from across three dozen centuries.
 
I stand in a stone's shadow, think
of the things that have grown up
between, while the suns
have crossed these distances.
Some believe the stones have power
but the power is in the names
coming home, showing us
how the circle was itself a sign,
still smelling of peat and sea,
that keeps us grounded, and returning.