numbered trees. number 7. 
listening to smoke, a singer that just found me. sounds so good. dang that he died.  
he sounds so alive. 
in the museum parking lot mister's ears went forward and he stopped and stared at a vehicle like hes done before but i didn't see a bird person within. we saw a few ahead on the island but we couldn't catch up. sigh. i remember when mister would run to catch them.  
this time he was lagging behind me and didn't even see them. we used to meet them talk and dance around the birders, and run on ahead, leaving them to the birds. 
that's ok, we are still together, still in the vicinity of birds and numbered trees, walking differently, but walking all the same, looking everywhere, like we always did, even if our eyes are seeing different things, one another, different things.
there are things we miss now, but we're glad to be here, to miss them being here, and this way they're still here, the way we miss them.