by Michael Cooney
We talked of a single bird, so early that only
the shape of her face was visible to my fingers.
Not one, but several, were calling.
The darkness was too brief.
The glass of water was untouched beside the bed.
Did we sleep at all on solstice night?
Later, hours later, in the morning light
we became ourselves, and something more,
much more, from that point onward to each other.