by Jennifer KronovetOnce she stole a boat—is this how it started— at night to bring the pond a gift— it was a bird of salt—which was taken into its reflection. But the pond is not the sea. This is where you lived. The lesson of dissolve—but it was a bird—sifted to the bottom of all her actions. Is this the start of us? How she traveled to the sea—will you— is not open for discussion. She went back for the worst winter—the worst winter in years—and took him—this is where— to see how the pond—embodied by cold—ended in an edge of ice on the sand. She knew it would be foolish to go out on the ice. But she did. And he followed. They started. They started to see the crack rising between them. Meaning nothing—meaning something must still be living underneath.
