Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Fly

We are dragging our feet through the snow,
across the ice
and black
parking lot
of winter.
The dog,
you and me,
the bread we ate
still warm in our bellies,
curled up in a ball on the purple rug
waiting for winter to pass
like a tummy ache.
Tomorrow we will wear sweaters and sit outside in the sun
and wonder how we were ever felt cold at all.
It is like that.
Our days
pass before us like seagulls on their way to the beach.
One moment we are in love,
the next alone.
In summer
we long for cool.
In winter, the reverse.
We are always wanting.
I do not think the birds think about such things.
They simply fly.