I watch a hawk dive past the rising half-moon, the origami arrow of his body glowing red in the last rays of the sun and turning dark just before he plunges into the forest. I go inside meaning to tell you, but as soon as I see you I forget everything. We talk. You wrap a present, and I play with an old rubber band until it snaps.
I notice a cricket struggling in a house spider’s web behind my file cabinet and crouch down to free it. Half of a hind leg stays behind in the web like a black eyelash. I read you a ghost story from a thousand years ago until your eyelids begin to droop. We say our goodnights. Later, as the moon sinks behind the western ridge, I hear the cricket calling from the garden, a slow stutter.