"Oh" comes to mind. I am slow to lift, wait like a limb, a ledge. The birds save each sound for morning, a shadow of wings wakes a cloud of bees. My body, sketch-like, pitched slowly forward. If I drop my hands from my eyes, an open dark; a room of rival light that scatters to understand. To stay, a game of what calls me, descends, or, the way we sometimes hover.