I can hear them now, she says

the chickadees in the morning outside the window, how

they move into the evergreens, their tzwee

tzwee. And they were there yesterday and the day

before that, how I too have always been there. You mean more to me

than you know, though there are times when a sadness

still comes, the way evening brings a sheen to the lake, the way

troupes of warblers surprise the treetops. Will it be

as fleeting? Everything is fleeting, it’s what we gaze upon

that shares the attention. (He buries his face

into her hair.) But you are here now and I can smell the scent

of your skin like the air after rain, and I stare

upon the curve of your shoulders, the rise from your lower back.

Tomorrow, however, you could be gone. Like the warblers.

Perhaps instinct, circadian rhythm, the setting

of the sun. But tell me, would I sit here in the coming night

listen for your return?

©️ David Crews