She wasn’t fixed, necessarily, on happiness

which she couldn’t, in any case, distinguish

from luck. What she wanted was to flourish.



Happiness, she said once, is for amateurs.



He spoke earnestly, looking into her eyes for confirmation—

of what? She listened as though there could be a secret

wrapped in each of his words. His breath was a little bad.

His eyes, round and small and without

noticeable lashes. Like the eyes of an eel, she thought.



Yes, she answered. In a voice he can

still hear— as low and sure

and fragile as lichens. A sound

like stars in the daytime sky. Yes,

we’ll make it last.



Which is when a squadron of California

quail burst from the coyote brush.



Because if love doesn’t survive, why would you want to?