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First thought: Today the daylight is two minutes and seventeen seconds shorter than yesterday.

Second thought: One open window to the air before sunrise, its hitch and chill; the raven in the tree-line.

Third thought: My hands skim things and do not settle; the empty page, the arm of the chair, the first photo taken of us. You said to me: Look. Look at your hands, how they hold me.

Fourth thought: I have lived in this desert for so long. At night, I startle awake to the memory of things greening, to my bare feet in the creek bed clay, to the night breathing around me.

Fifth thought: You said: I want to be where you are. You said it straight on. You did not look away.

Sixth thought: He spoke my truest name. He called it that: Your truest name. He asked if he could call me by that.

Seventh thought: Yes. I said yes.

©2019 Dora E. McQuaid
Photo by Caitlin Legere

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