Though unresolved, you too assume the unions of morning.
Rocks break on the sill.
So for you there's this again, these birds absurdly singing, that cover the sough of night. Already, hours ago, they've ridden hard to the east but failed to spear with beaks the sound of their own singing, and returned. Now you appear in the morning and go out for mail. Neither of us speaks. We pull the walls down close around us.