Graduating to Wet Stones

An untouched moment of blackbirds pecking at tiny seeds you scattered over our stony drive. And I, undisclosed, commune with you silently delighting in this unruffled pausing from our everyday hectics. The window pane shattered in May's final babel holds no more importance than one less impediment between you and your backyard aviary. Downed lines, fallen limbs your worry: the pair nesting in the small yellow house you built last winter; I am charmed by your elegant flight to more meaningful concerns. Tonight we nestle close while the night air, still chilled even at the first of June, spills into our bedroom. You wonder quietly the name of the red-headed visitor causing a stir among your regular flocks, while I dream myself a blackbird.

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