“And then the sun”

i.m. And then the sun came slicing sideways, clear water reflecting it, giving it slant. A gloss of rain so quick and light that day hardly made a sound. The thought of sheets hung out and drying on the line, of seeds in soil and soil itself, the glutting ends of stems of leaves that will them to let fall up and out and through the trees, the shape that shoots could take, of you and this moment as it happens: our echoing hush as we try to hold the close music of the blackbird in the bush. • And then the sun continued on. Lough Neagh cooled under the firm keels of fishing boats on the water’s taut skin, their painted hulls in pointed arcs an emblem of balance so finely wrought that they could tell the weight of light or air. Each night we walk along the shore, expecting still to find your sturdy figure waist-deep in waders, plumbing darkness, hauling it in, but never again your grip on the reel and never again the deft music of the blackbird nesting in your hand.