The taste of air on the tongue; remembrance
of water before it swelled with dying coral.
From inside a cocoon of flotation chambers,
easy to speak of concern for the oceans’
disappearance. From within detergent commercials,
little narratives of rescue— birds slicked
with oil, unable to fly. When windows are
tightly sealed it’s easy to love the sound
rain makes: falling through cups in a copper
chain, down into a barrel. The fat of the land,
something to purchase from warehouse clubs.
At night, on the road, when beams cut through
the darkness: the shapes of furtive creatures,
following trails of disappearing scent.
In response to Via Negativa: Bird-lover.