Lines in the Sand

A little wind pushes me unexpectedly while walking east at 5 a.m.. Bluets a faint blur akin to the half moon in mist (which it is not). All flowers are in relationship to light. The dog circles the neighbor's yard, enters the still dark field, and a moment later you hear killdeer cry, fleeing their hidden nests. Oh.

Om? I am? A yam? Thoughts rest a while near the brook and one is thankful. Venus caught in glimpses only through leafing maples, such lovely hushes.

Or should we study certain French actors and their relationship to accents? We strain the broth, we make soup, and we do it without saying what we mean. Sweeping is always amenable to sadness and longing! Yet you want to get away from words altogether. You want to get away from understanding.

Tired of circling the damn mountain and waiting for Him to arrive with a map, I start climbing and it's easier than expected. Lines in the sand are invitations. How easy it is when we see at last that our will is not at odds with Life. Unfolding oh, enfolding I. Home with tea, nothing else to hold.