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?