Up Early, Three Months After Moving to a New State

Walking the dog before sunrise & there are so many stars over Ohio & I’m pretty sure that big one is Jupiter & Orion’s belt is so bright & I lift my eyes & lift my eyes & reach for the profound & which of course escapes into the dark spaces & between the sky & distance & distance & everyone is so far away & here I think I am supposed to & say how insignificant it all makes me feel & but it’s the opposite & I am the center of the motherfucking universe & the hunter watches me & specifically me & it sounds like I’m talking about God & I’m not & I’m talking about & I sleep less here & I am lonely & I’m talking about & you & despite the stars & because of the stars.

Why Is One Side of a V of Birds Always Longer? It

Has More Birds in It.

Saturday and cold sunshine and a crooked checkmark of Canada geese veers low overhead noisily. They bark and glide and shape themselves: river, rope bridge, narrative arc. The goose at the foremost point — would that be crisis? climax? crossroads? whatever, the bird wearies, its turn as leader complete, slides back toward one of the ends: resolution? catalyst? It’s hard to keep track. Stories begin, they end, they overlap like seasons. The last time you touched me, I jumped. Bit my tongue. The blood warm against my teeth.