Of few words
before first light the marsh was all scent, mud and sawgrass and cold that enters through the hands. we sat in the blind like two men who’d already said everything and were now just letting the earth finish the conversation. he moved away that spring. i don't call enough. no one does. most mornings I stand in the kitchen and the first hot pull of coffee sends me back to that water, that sky opening like a wound healing in reverse, all the orange and purple rushing back into the body of the world, and I think how we never once said the word beautiful though we were both drowning in it.
