What I wanted to say to her was the prayer the deer turn into as they step deeper towards those woods grazing on darkness, or the silence that is the thistle light of their eyes staring back for whatever we say means something more. * The nets of our stories are always torn. In one version there are warnings— a spinning weathervane, knuckled clouds that flank the harbor, the whole sky a swaying coat on a nail. The large cheekbone of an island rests on water, and the sun, resting on the edge of land as on some windowsill, closes its boxer’s eye. Or else, the storm has passed, the gulls return, hover like divining rods, and, tired with such a stern-faced evening, we set our oars out, wing, and glide.