at 4am I cross the bridge
over the black water
the one that, like a vein, has carried
molecules of longing to our hearts,
etching the map of
our coming both together and apart,
winding east, then back upon itself as it carves
southward to the source
where water comes together with other water.
the wings of sand hill and whooping cranes
draw a line in the sky
tracing a path
from where we lay on our bellies
at secret beach, watching the fishing birds,
to the mouth of the bay
where at night the stars bore down
with fire
aching to be seen,
where once
we beheld the slick backs of pilot whales
in the surf
illuminated by the moon.
here
is where I will always find you
searching for the wild part of yourself
that somehow remembers
what is was like breathing
the water.
