we are wrapped in a woolen plaid,
you and i-
barefoot still and teeth chattering
beside our bit of loch
from where i have retrieved you once more

poor wee birds, toes blue-
fingers interlocked, astride the log
like two pale birds mated
our hair whipping like feathers
ruffled, casting our wings out

my shoulder nudges, hand snaking
into the depths of your damp pocket,
extracting the cold rock like a birth, saying:
we all float like stones, darlin’
we all float…


Author’s Note:  I wrote this for Virginia after reading To The Lighthouse which centered on visits to The Isle of Skye in Scotland…. hence the Scot references within~