Desert sunrise with whiskey in tea that lacks cream and sugar so the burn is imperative, like the torch of the cold air against already cold skin.
Crowing roosters that rock the world; feathers puffing out in large breaths with small lungs rising. The way they brush their feathers into the stilled air as they call out across the expanse of silent pond water thick with green irrigation scum.
‘Yeah, there were times,’ she said. ‘There were times, that’s all.’
So I drank the burning bitter liquid while we sat on the cold cement patio watching the grass ripple with the extended vocals of the birds, her cigarette smoke rising with the light and my eyes falling with the moon. I feel closer to you with its pale glow and hate to see it fall behind the light and blue.
She puffs out her lips like the bird puffs out his chest, as if she meant to call across the verses of the ocean reaching a sea miles away where she has never touched the sand. Instead she scratched her arm leaving pale pink trails like the rose gardens we created as children with hard pinches for the planting of the seeds and deep racking of the nails for the plow.
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