To The Swan

A window opens into the backyard. Bird songs. I think about the desert winds I have neither written about nor seen. A book about the caravans and their battles is on its way to me.

In a sunlit room, on a swinging bed, a warm afternoon, your voice drifting towards me from the entrance to this home. I wait in a place between a smile and a longing. I had stories to tell and you are finally here.

A mother and her baby in a tiny place somewhere.