when the moon slips through waves
of clouds, tempests drowning stars--
the sky is dark and you are playing a fiddle.
We listen to birds settle their wings on branches
and bury their beaks in their feathers
to keep themselves warm.
We peek at each other through our fingers
and look for lights through the trees
just now getting new leaves.
We lie in open fields and watch
dew form on the blades of grass
undisturbed by our breath.
Somewhere in the dark,
lying on our backs,
our hands touch--
the sky is dark and you are playing a fiddle.
