Night passes. Morning comes.
What is continues, serene and gentle, like the thinnest of thin curtains in a honeysuckle breeze. What is not grows old, and dies, and is forgotten.
After midnight, the dog and I went walking: bright stars and settling gibbous, fireflies high in the slow-buffeting maples. Without word of her we walked.
Without word, later, one lies on their back and imagines what might happen. Near dawn the owls come up from the hollow and sing, their hunger abated, their rest assured.
Who fears their appetite denies what is. Who refuses to give according to the terms of desire, also denies what is.
We walk and almost always return to where we started. Some things are completed, others continue.
Mourning doves visit the feeder, elegant and whole. One dreams of her naked: asks for it: and waits.
All morning - bereft of sleep - I write. The sentences form themselves and go out, as on a radio, or mysterious.
The radio does not know if its song is received, nor how. It is ignorant of logistics.
For a few minutes I consider sleep: silence and rest: the drag of blankets and pockets of heat. But wait instead: and radiate the only gift given me: the awkward song, the sensual plea.