There’s a cabin waiting for us somewhere in the woods of cypress and oak with a few dogs to make it a proper home. On the stove, a teapot whistles and an oven hums to the tune of apple pie. The world feels warms there and the young mornings will bring us wind and many birds that sing like honey and from their bones. What matters is that the walls there are our walls, the mornings our mornings, the winds our winds, and the closest neighbor is forever away. Only the birds are not ours to keep, though they travel with us, some returning dutifully each spring, others passing through. You can hear the river if you care to listen. At night, it gets cold but there’s a fireplace. It gets dark, too, but the stars are brighter than you’ve ever seen. Before us, leathered sailors looked to the stars, not only because they were a map home, but because out there on those nights filled with waves plowing a black field, clusters of rock sticking out like the spines of sea creatures, the wooden walls of the ship lurching this way and that, there was nothing else to be sure of, nothing else as warm and certain. I’ve never sailed, but when I wake up next to you I imagine everything else as ripples of those black waters and I wonder if I still need the stars.