Outside my window it’s never the same, some mornings jasmine slaps the house, some mornings sorrow. There is a word I overheard today, meaning lost, not on a career path or across a floating bridge: Boketto, to stare out windows without purpose. Don’t laugh; it’s been too long since we leaned into the morning: bird friendly coffee and blueberry toast. Awhile since I declared myself a prophet of lost cats, blind lover of animal fur and feral appetites. Someone should tag a word for the calm of a long marriage. Knowledge the heat will hold, and our lights remain on, a second sight that drives the particulars of a life: sea glass and salt, cherry blossoms and persistent weeds. What assembles in the middle distance beyond the mail truck; have I overlooked oceans, ignored crows? I try to exist in the somehow, the might still be, gaze upward to constellations of in-between.