We have heard early owls again.
We do not fear, we only feel
their darker slights. In the half
light, the profile of the aldered
hills is horizon enough.
You turn at the landing.
We mirror each other. Reflections
of vine maple feather our nakedness.
In the sodden spring, my eyes
run with pollen. Our bodies are speaking
windows, transparent, bending
toward the light.
Waxwings stain the wind, their flight
extracting color from the cobwebbed night.
The moths against the window persist
We’ll turn another hilltop year, at least.