that night amidst the backyard mange, the rooster curdling his signature untimely crow, you bent your head down until it reached mine and all I remember seeing was black branches against blue sky mingled with swipes of your hair on my face.
as is customary, we smoked cigarettes & chatted until the hours when night becomes inverted, like an airplane pilot’s vertigo. is the orange & pink receding or emerging? it was tough to tell over the alcohol glow & our laughter.
we grew so tired, the front stoop became a nest for our heads until finally discomfort, not dissatisfaction, got the best of us. one of us mentioned killing the rooster & in my current state of recklessness & adventure, I grabbed your hand, pulling you into the overgrowth & vowing to make that rooster think twice about confusing 4 AM with 7 AM.
I told you the story about how one of the chickens escaped into our yard & we subdued it with rakes, but ultimately I had to toss it back over the fence, like an unwanted morsel at a surfeit potluck. you laughed, didn’t say much of anything. I walked you to your car, and as you drove away–a light morning fog beginning to form–I considered the rooster somewhat of a confidant for the first time.
