abiding ovenbird She finds him in a white room, lit diffusely from a north facing window. The bed is piled high with red velvet pillows, all hand embroidered with rose motifs. There are two red roses in a crystal bud vase on the bedside table. He is folded into a wingback chair upholstered in ecru wool with a book in his hands. The cover is blank—no title or pictures to hint at what the book contains. She doesn’t speak, but crosses the room and curls herself into his lap and his arms come around her and her head rests on his chest and she says, “we have the whole day” and they feel so rich in gold plated hours. His heart beats beneath her ear and it seems they could spend an eternity here and never be bored, but worry, like wool, raises a persistent itch on tender skin and she wonders if she will lose him. Not bodily, perhaps, but minds can be lost and stolen and eroded. She knows, because her own mind was once lost for years and she wasn’t sure she would ever find it. You can’t put a mind away for safe keeping. They die in captivity. But in the wild there are predators and poachers, and prayers are as useless as paper swords. She prays anyway. “Stay with me, stay with me,” she intones. His arms draw her close and they dip quills in the inkwells of each other’s eyes. 260422 what's it to you? who go blather from