Morning: fire of purple princess blossoms, toddler pedaling furiously on a tricycle, and the man unlocking his fix-it shop on the corner with its hand-painted warning sign: All my stuff is not worth your life. The last of winter’s rain evaporates into fog, and the dogwood sheds its fragrance: soft, delicious. I’m building my nest, just like the chickadee, the yellow-rumped warbler, the dark-eyed junco, out of whatever’s at hand — you, as it turns out, our clasped fingers and twinned gaits. This terrifying tenderness. Plus coffee, plus trillium and jasmine and pink fuzz of flowering peach. I’m scared to confess to happiness. I know the jealous Fates in their dolorous Heaven, how they love to feast on the heart. I know they’ve already marked the spot where one of us dies and the other stands open-mouthed and uncomprehending as dirt closes over our one song. But for just this moment I want what I have. Love quickens the air. Witness that, O yellow-bellied sapsucker, lazuli bunting, American robin.