as you slipped
between the river birch branches
and wineberry shrubs along the drive.
Your breath,
gone elsewhere
while the morning’s mist stayed.
             That week, even the dog
remained indifferent.
A pair of disbelievers, he and I.

The crows pause nightly now on the water tower,
             the wineberries, weighted down—
their fat orbs as somber as a glow of tail lights,
passing strands of sparkle that float
and fade along the roadway’s
pebbled edge.

Some days, if the way is clear,
I’ll forget basic truths
and focus on the blanketed horses
clustered near the bend.
             You,
             part of a past life now,
             are a bird glimpsed in the rear view.

             That last time,
we laughed over our waitress’s good sense
             to pour more coffee,
             which allowed more time to talk,
the diner open all night.
If we could sit together
again, I’d take slower sips,
ask you more questions,
encourage you to stay.