It announces itself as a rustle in the bushes, as a tug of the hem, as a flash of light in the eye, as
arrives. The late light turning on me draws the day closer, the east meadow beyond a grove of birches, some animal stirring at the
In the west now, a searing sunset illumines the imprint of your breast on mine. There have you traveled on purpose without me, no
She insists it is always summer on the white road, always morning, and the fish bones by the river are picked clean. He watches