To see clearly.
And to know your own story of love.
However improbable that could be.
To notice what you missed 10,000 times.
The kestrel that dropped from above, wings rotating backward, like a man treading water.
Pouncing on another bird in the groundcover below.
Wings sprawled out awkwardly on morning glory vines and whatever poor thing underneath.
Green pine cones bubbling with sap, perfectly spaced on shelves of branches, like ornaments placed by someone who loves holidays.
Battered banana tree leaves somehow inseparable from the wind because of how it left separations in their arcing flaps.
Muscular pine trunks that will be micromillimeters different tomorrow.
Bulging with intention to take up space.
But, of course, no intent.
Just character against space.
This onto that.
Exterior set pieces a man could make sense of.
Yet doing so would be sacrilege.
