The weightless weight of the slow rise to a shifting balance where the legs split—flying. What is it to twist this far, to breathe and not to fall? To meet your gaze and hold it—we’ve adapted over time, conditions sometimes threatening— is it our time now? I found you around the next corner again, and again, as though you waited, suspended. I was ready to expand—perched, then tipping, reaching forward, leaning in joy. Later we curled up, crowed on—that hasn’t changed—caw, caw— feasting on what we could find, mostly each other. Untwisting, the balm you brought us wafted up— chamomile, argan, shea—cake batter air— our open woods, our crook, this time.