old lives relinquished to a season,
we take back our natal names.

these days, some things sound the same,
like the mergansers in hook creek.

the flightpath when i try to sleep
still buzzes over like an auspice.

summer skin, the end of august,
all the freckles peel away.

i’ll skip stones across the bay
until the sun sweats through the night,

until time’s passing feels right,
until mosquitos **** me dry.