Crooked starlight bent into shapes, sparkling eyes, from a distance as tears from lonely travelers who’ve trekked the constellations of northern skies. May the doves sound their cries under the melancholy sky. Can you reach up and touch the ice cold waters, rippling with merfolk from armada to archipelago, reefs afloat on millennial seas. Crooked starlight bent into shapes we don’t often see, but resolve to embrace the dark bright tears of newly rekindled joy. May the doves sound their cries under the melancholy sky.

Nars woke up with morning’s bright moisture on his face. He looked up. The pinyon pines, prickled by a sudden breeze, smelled darkly of creosote. The sun had barely reached above a tear in the clouds, its light still damp in the hollow. Nars usually woke at midday, being a nocturnal insectivore, and extraterrestrial. Today something new spoke in the wind. There were always conversations to be heard, whispering in branches at night. Fat winged moths fluttered and birds tickered and swung. Sometimes there was a singer singing. Except today. Just a small mole’s face, dry but sobbing dusty tears that smelled of centuries. Then, in a moment stranded in the river of thoughts, a leaf pile loosened and fell from high in the tree canopy. He trained the tines of his ears into the wind this time, listening again. A small human child was laughing. He froze. Never in all his summers had he heard such a thing, but instinctively he knew it. The loud, hollow voices of hunters one autumn had frightened him once before. All he had to do was imagine the precious pink face of this infant aged forward, beard specked, looking out from above a long grey trench coat. But he couldn’t. How did humans say it? He didn’t “want” to imagine it. His wings trembled, though he wasn’t cold. There was a different, cooing voice near the child. The sound gave rise to stealthy ice picks along his spine. But the child buzzed and giggled again—mirthfully, and he couldn’t help himself. Nars, four thousand human years old now but young in the sinews and pipette bones and filament hairs that furred his back and the edges of his wings, shook with a frightening sound. Frightening to his own kind, that is. To every other terrestrial eardrum he squawked like a parakeet. But not this time. While his face creased with laughter, he clapped a webbed hand over his mouth to stop it, the effort to contain the outburst causing him to drip snot from his cranial orifices for a week. Careless, indeed! He froze, realizing that anyone, anything, could have heard him. Even the feeble ears of humans. The wind shifted. He smelled potatoes cooking with deer meat—both an atrocity and both a tumult to his senses. He looked for shadows, and sprang into the lowest branches of the pines, concentrating so that his wings changed color to match the variegation of cone and needle leaf.

Icicles whisker the eaves of houses, lengthening in the dripping daylight Loosening and letting go, eventually.

Your fingers in mine I linger on your face, slowly I navigate your body; The memory of your skin More than just a memory The unmeasured flood of pain How losing you has robbed me. But then everything you’ve Made of me remains, and Why not? Can’t love spring Up from frozen ground, taking Root from sleeping seeds Rising up again with time, A little rain, and the Patient healing of slow Seasons in the sun.

Beads of sweat collect on his forehead eventually dripping into his eyes and ears until he laughs, silently, shaking his head. Waiting until he hears the sound of rain, distantly: a dim ring on the big brass bell the choirmaster keeps ready for him, the quiet boy, to strike the hour.