Four a.m. melted under the last of summer's creamsicle moon. In a way, you kneel under the stars whether you mean to or not. Untouchable yet there. In utter darkness, we cannot live. So this gratitude for even the tiniest pinpoints of light gushes forward, first as awe, then acknowledgement of being. My words play in the romance of tip-toeing from one starlit tide pool to the next, but I assure you, my deepest desire is to meet light mouth-to-mouth.
Morning lags behind the air breaks of school buses and the competing conversations of dogs outside before their breakfast. How hunger breeds intensity. The day presents itself as steadfast, so I get on board with that which cannot die.
Thursday / tick-tock / the train's conductor / taking tea / on hiatus
I think I just want to speak plainly now. The simple easiness of what is really here. And there? The storytellers weave and bob, but please tell me the truth with an impoverished tongue.
On the way towards noon, a Cooper's Hawk watches from the depressed telephone pole, a sinking reminder of the futility planting anything but vegetables in the muck fields. We see each other and it matters. I think we want the same thing.
Tonight promises to be clear from here to there. Meet me for starry-eyed tea on the back porch, okay? I don't want to kneel alone.