I love my hands and the stick of my hands and how my hands stick. The kitchen floor creeks all evening, I keep waiting for the night to lighten and replay a circle of crows falling gently in a lasso of emptiness. They have been here all winter, watching for hawks in the neighbor's fir. They recognize you by your mouth and smile lines, the feet that form around your eyes when you stare.
[Read the previous non sequitur]