I’m watching the wind
through the boughs of evergreen.
They dance as seaweed
caught up in a current.
A patience that belies
the winter squall.
I’m becoming
an expert at counting things.
Days, miles, landmarks
on the path to your door.
The bones in your back,
pink from the shower steam.
Hawks glide through
tangled for a moment
in the sea grass. Four
of them lifting into the yellowing
late winter sun. Love letters
drifting east to wherever you are.