the monarch flew over the un-arched highway exit
where we escaped the streak on the horizon—
the stain of yellow headlights
echoing the sliver of orange moon
like the tone deaf tenor
of a church choirs.
and by day,
a flock of wild turkeys
pluck crumbs from the highway grass
in the shade of a broken-down utility van.
and by night,
you held my hand as we walked the length
of Thurlby street sharing stories—
you began with "when i was little"
and "before i met you"
filling in those missing moments—
i held my breath
and watched as dry leaves fell
from elder oak and foreign maple.