It is Sunday. The light of early days, the valiance of tree bark and overhang and grasses, cracking open the long passage, layered over and again with other wetter voices, a gumming, an ambered absentia. Remember? I remember. For all we have become, these concrete and girdered constructions, the cubby holes, the known secret places, serving up morning with whispers of nightlife running over the skin; there is more to the day than the effort of this, there is that which this work serves, there is other, there is other. The skin, the covered bones. We are glad. You extend yourself out in dearness to every other creature, bright and arching, generous effusion. The world looks back and takes your hand. 

I in my fluttering stand on bird feet, curled around your finger.