How to live in time, how to have it acknowledge the gold-
brown body you press into its hull? Consult a rune, fortunes
slipped into a shell— You will need to make an important
decision this year; or Change is soon coming. But when
is the future’s bony finger not scratching at the window,
or bending back the stalks of wheat as if to make a path
for the unseen’s passing? It’s hard not to grieve for all
the slow sifting above. But rising at dawn, I marvel
at the sky’s coloring: saffron of a mango’s cheek, velvety
peach. Fruit out of season. Or a dry tremor of wings
unhinging in the canopy. Sometimes the moon remains visible,
blade of dented silver poking through the branches. Tiny
forms affix themselves to the substrate where the sea
rises through a network of roots, no longer negotiating.