Two early morning snails curl together breathing the end. Their escape from wet grass become impossible they drown around their shells touch with the ground of their voices flooded saying hold me this one last time we leave together not alone our shells beautiful ready to be emptied of who we were come closer while we say that we felt each leaf each rose in brief color scent have you gone already tucked into your shell your face disappearing the memory of your heart beating me into the ground as you rise above in the beak of a bird.

The bird is the word between us. Fly, do not wait to walk make the rhythm of wings beat you into flight that is sight seeing itself see look over there look here answer the best question by asking even a better question no answers these complicated dances in the beak of a bird no one saw the bird but you flew where I would not see the implications.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.