It was after the fire came out of the earth we made our home

on that jagged parallelogram. Fossilized waves white-tipped as wings

etched the ancient stone. We had language but we didn’t need it. The wails

we sang across the water were just a kind of laughter. Comfort came

in the refrains, the repetition—moss blooming through pewter mist,

darkness thawing into light, the other winged ones mapping

skies in frenzied flight. We did not envy them. And what more

could we have asked for? We had each other to turn to under the blanket

of night where even shame could be forgotten. There was no word

for catastrophe. Even now, the concept still eludes me. Clouds settled

slow as sediment along the horizon. Time stretched in all directions.

We felt no urgency; nothing was for show. We swam. We ate. We kept

the egg between our legs. The speckled gem, inky-veined. Like stones, we sat.

A shadow opening its arms: I think you’d call that love. We didn’t call it that.