jewel tone clipped in waves. the night sky is indifferent as the dark river moves through me like a quiet prayer. let me close my eyes and hold my breath so I may listen with intention. little moments. low hum. the bronze earth and patchy snow stretch down and beyond. the hills roll and in my own heart, the dark-eyed juncos work at the seed in the hanging feeder until there just isn’t enough light and I ask myself – what are you waiting for? the day is starting soon! the day is almost over!

when the cloud becomes part of the body again — distance, and the rain. what did I look like before the sycamore trees and the uneven sidewalks? I am both planted and hewed. the nurse log and the moss. my heart is a little pool of rainwater collected here then lost and collected again in foggy mirrors, within worn-out hymns. and in these places, you are the blotchy sunlight, always shifting. you are the swiftness of songbirds. you and I will sit in these moments. here is the cloud again – but you are not you and you are, still. my daughter is singing a song in the next room over. the waves are over — the waves are over the people. and the waves are over. people, waves, and over the waves. and waves / waves, the people. the waves are —