It is dinner time and I am cooking in my kitchen. I am imagining you’ve come up behind me. I think to say the moon is but a sliver and holds the sky like your hand on my hip. Of course you do not hear me, you at your own stove two states away. I think, the sand hill cranes have come back again, four summers now. I think of their wings held to the shape of a crescent. I think, if I were a crane I would leave the burgers to burn. Head east toward your long wooden table my wings like two napkins flapping. The sound they’d make like the smack of lips.