I point—over a high ridge 
I’ve spotted a hawk turning on a silk
air current, effortless as your warm breath
against my neck. You hand me steaming 
coffee, black, and its rich color reminds me
of the night, the heat it held
and the secrets our bodies shared 
within it. But you are tired of the darkness
that drags me down in full 
daylight. I want to live as fluidly 
as this hawk, feel for myself
the slip and soar, pull
into my lungs the strength and lightness
of the air all around me. When I imagine 
contentment, I picture feathers 
shielding against a hard rain,
a river, 
deep roots,
a quiver of straight arrows.