The foreign birds are
fearful of the sky.
They are fearful of the river
and choose to play
hide-and-seek with the
phases of the moon.
Barefoot in the cold
they huddle together
and run slant.
Almost in Orion’s grasp.
But I have you.
Pulling me in a sweet direction.
with lips open in sweet surrender.
And then I moan and move on
without any regrets or fear.
​