In the late September light crows were bold, crisp
outlines sketched on power lines, above roofs.
Afternoon flocks of gulls formed and reformed over
the harbour; fraying white knots of hunger.
Before the moon rose I moved pale and weightless as
its light; my gravity repealed by joy in your laughter.
Late at night, after leaving, I still heard crows
in the distance—as wide awake, boisterous as me.
I slept through the morning, woke to crows
rasping across the sky, still defying gravity.