Copperwing I moon though he could not later

though he could not later say why

Those who noticed each other there did not ask why they belonged together

as if they know secrets only the trees remember

Drying alters this alignment

She scrubs it loose with the edge of her nail

Copperwing I moon though he could not laterCopperwing waits in the ginkgo tree, where morning light drifts like melted gold and evening spills in amber rivers. It is never caught in the glare of day, only glimpsed when the sky softens, when shadows stretch long and the world holds its breath. It flits along branches that hum with old stories, wings stirring the air with a sound like faint bells, like something impossible brushing past. Those who notice it feel a shift in the light, a weight in