Beyond the bulrush, leaf-bare birch trees suggest the slender face of a doe. Hooded mergansers and a white scatter of gulls on the marsh. Belted kingfisher and red-tailed hawk. Opening the window, morning chill fills the room. Dry fallen leaves, crow call and distant traffic. I stretch toward the hidden sun. Bend at the waist. Sit and strike the brass bowl.
We appear from nowhere. Our existence is not voluntary.
A dream: Bound and blindfolded. Smoke filling the room we roll across the stone floor and press shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek. Impassioned. Every last thing we can possibly be. Then gone.