Observer of the march of ants, wondering about the start and the finish of the queue.
He is knitted and folded into beautiful shapes, silhouetted against the dim.
Collector of pearls, of stones, of wasp nests and moss. Hunter of feathers and broken glass.
A roughened heart fully exposed, beating through the knot of vines.
Simultaneously he scoops me up, and I scoop him.
We weave together, tangled, in glorious harmony surprised.
Twig man against my skin.