Sieved through window blinds light falls in stripes on your eyelids and mine open. Birdsong, also filtered by glass, and the first I've heard all year is still shrill in our duvet'd ears and, confused by the cold, poses a question at the end of each phrase. Birds nests, like wedding hats, sit in bare trees that flex with age. Arms outstretched like the ladies who wear them. No leaves. You turn to me, face avocado green (and sick of me), your fists curl and uncurl; mine are pounding the sheets.