Escort to Ash

Up past midnight tending a fire while the others sleep. What am I - what are any of us ever - but an escort to ash? I dreamed of raising the dead and getting lucky, and I dreamed of ducklings tumbling over one another in sunlight, and I dreamed of the futility inherent in cameras. Yet grace does reside in the image, even the ones we never receive. Nobody is going anywhere is a hard lesson to learn, given the cartographic nature of relationship. I am here, he is there. A preferential dishonesty, like a sudden opening where the hill crests, is neither an answer nor a question. The truth admits no distance, which is why you can see right through it and still see only truth. At dawn a little snow falls like some Nordic god's afterthought, or maybe a little winter god still learning how to walk. A book called Dogs I Have Known would be too sad for any of us, but cardinals at the feeder are a real joy. I sneak outside before anyone else wakes up and thank them for being red, thank them for this open marriage full of chickadees and bears, starlight and you. And you. You.