Two weathered pickets lie beneath the mandarin tree and I blame their digraph on the wind’s penchant for written remnants. Above, the suited bird ornaments the aerial, rust and word in agreement.

I dig a ditch that fills with dead leaves and discarded verbs. Things come and go, bird and heart sharing a somnambulant fluency, while the right name drifts silent between us. And this is how I prefer it: a life lived listening, waiting for that word.

The diamond window defines a perfect gazing sphere. Inside, the blush moon sweetens pomegranates. A young hawk’s evening flight follows the trajectory of the rose tree that sprays its pink confections roofside. Little birds intercept a lone bat dicing the air and a quinceañera flusters nearby as life sinks into silhouette. This is a circle like any other, full of grace.

How does it feel when the infinite passes between your lips, this hollow of light proclaiming the whole of the world in a spark of sound? I’m certain if I spoke continuously for the remainder of my life, the voice would still breathe unharmed, as if I wasn’t there at all. Listening to you, I become a beautiful sort of nothing.