You were a room filled with paintings of storms in the style of Turner and each was gold— end-of-day gold; gold as you want me to be. Gold as a sweet horse in a picture book. Gold in that way, your way; Gold when it’s lost, how it seems more gold. A girl’s tooth. That…

After being with you, I saw a beetle stuck on its back, scuttling its legs. I could have crushed it with my heel but I left it alone for the ants to devour— the ants did not come.   

Riga Mountain trail,  our last hike before the blizzard. The hawk we spooked is perched across the pond— a scent of snow hangs heavy in the air. The rabbit’s eye is big and berry-bright, lucid as a black marble. He looks untouched except his skull— an open, red pomegranate. No clotting yet.