the photo on the mantle’s framed in oak. it’s mostly out of focus. she’s steady on tiptoe, and her hands are quiet. in the foreground, clear, a crocus blooms blue riot; behind and blurred, legs loom long and gone.
discovery on Sparrow’s face is dawn. she’s thinking, still, about those dueling stags. with antlers foremost in her mind, she finds an ant on one cobalt petal, and there her searching snags. the pull is a pleasure, less metal than molt, and she treasures it, measures its volume by volt.
this is one how he sees, she thinks, and one how he chooses to haze. she smiles in the style of a labyrinthine lover who’s made out the march of a maze.
Sparrow spends an essent hour, standing staring at the floor. then she sets the chair down by the door.