In another world, you and I get really into backpacking. You grow out your beard. I braid my hair with strips of cloth. In the silent forest of this different circumstance, we speak softly to each other.

In some other time, you and I watch rockets launch from Cape Canaveral. You hold me in wonder on the wet ground. I lean into your chest in the countdown. We watch the breaking sky and speak softly to each other.

In some other bodies, you and I are barn owls. You make short flights at dusk, return to me. I kill voles and rabbits and leave the bones in open fields. Our eyes are huge. They reflect a waxing moon and we speak softly to each other.