We are past the morning of the small birds Into the morning of the crows Or is it ravens The caw of one seems as harsh as the other Though maybe there is more music in the one who takes me to rest There’s an ache, the chronic sort of ache that brings weary, chases moments of calm allusion before it I hear my time calling Or maybe that’s just a phone Missive Urgent demanding of synchronization Calling to my neighbor

Something to be heard, but not done Something to be seen, but not done What a gift, to be on an island. What a curse, to be an island. Someday, someway, somehow. That’s how it goes, right?

It’s cold in these waters Though the sea is warm And full of fish What brings a fish to delight in the air? Life, just a little longer.