Crickets and katydids rattling the residue of predawn's fog. A singular sound wielding power that rises above utterance, beyond observance. The physics of being present and gone are not so hard to consider anymore.
Tree bark holds the dampness after everything else has cleared. The day takes a flow I didn't orchestrate and as always, a feeling of insignificance rudders the tide. Though incidental, peace. And happiness these days.
I wouldn't have chosen Joe Cocker crooning in moonlight but the evolution of his rise and fall made a difference. An ongoing lunar affair means my breath is stolen and I am not the only one.
Punctuality as a fetish. The moon, a maple in quiet flush, the forced hibernation of those beholden to the rhythms around them.
Bees in the chive bloom, but also, ants. It's still warm enough to be barefoot, you know. Walking the pavers warmed by September's generosity – small stones collected into one rounder. Real gravel and grain in a fabricated form, yet no matter how it comes together or why, it is both false and true. I think that's how I see it all.
Acorn rain. Expected yet startling. The lessons of embracing what is, while letting go. Always a winter to follow.
When October arrives, embrace her for me; she'll be carrying a love I can only write about from here.