The Greyhound lies on her outdoor bed, pawing her eye to rid an invisible bug.

Mabel, the little dog, lies down beside her, crushing Tania’s long legs with her tank-like body. Mabel then moves to the cement, thinking her shadow will keep her cool.

My right shoulder is against the house. The wind on the cape is doing its usual dance between bay and sea, and the sun is painting my arm in broad strokes.

It’s a spring without voices. No more euphonious songs. But it is noon, when birds nap in tall leafy towers, bobble on their skinny dashboards, and mingle worms and nasturtiums on their tongues.

My right shoulder is against the house, and the wind and the sun are playing with me. I huddle more closely to the wall.

A house finch calls over next door’s construction. Mabel rolls on her back, asks for a belly rub.

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© 2026–present C. Nightjar. All rights reserved.

Imagine as the hurricane shouted and roiled beneath her she flew higher. Her flying was frantic, her dark wings furiously lifting her body, like a child lifting its arms to its mother, pleading, someone please catch me. She was so tired she could not sing.

She should have made for higher trees, a few cavities left. Perhaps she did rise, singing back to you, an echo of yellow pantaloons, irises faded to a blue concern. But you could not hear her above the water.

On the tape, where she should have been, a space, like a blip in the heart,

like the valley between mountains.

Long rows of both of you now line boxes. Eyes closed, talons tied. They opened your hearts, and they were full of flowers brimming with nectar, calling honey, honey, honey, we are but inches, inches away.

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© 2026–present C. Nightjar. All rights reserved.