A dovekey coos.
I see two.
Where there are razorbills, there are dovekeys.
And where there are dovekeys, there are razorbills.
That’s what taught me a woman I know.
She likes to dance, and sing, and weep, glowing with the gentle radiance of the moon.
She steps as a wave beating against the shoreline, destroying the sand and surface below.
Her voice is the quiet pulse of the ocean.
Her dance is the sharp wisp of an evening wind.
When she sings, she cries.
And when she dances, she weeps.
As a dovekey followed by a razorbill.
Never apart.
Always together, in perfect harmony.
She dances, sings, and weeps under the tireless light of the summer sky.