Morning is one of the things that passes.
The dead fox on the airstrip does not pass.
Jeweled blood on its broken jaw.
Grackles overhead. Quiet overhead. My father told me stories, he was confident telling stories, and then one day the stories stopped.
What we learn from witches. Frogs and lumberjacks, ticks and kangaroos.
Near midnight I slip into the backyard to stargaze, waiting on the Perseids which are gone they say, and yet.
When we are tired of sex, when we are exhausted by bodies. The soft fur covering the hot stones of my balls. Bells ringing. Words we don't use save in this or that context.
Promises we make to ourselves in the far back of the choir loft.
When prayer floats back and forth.
Crickets in the folded tarp near the chicken pen.
Apples fall through the night and in the morning we gather them and put them out for the hens.
Plans vs. what appears, and what just happens. Be less so more so.
The ocean gently moving against the shore, the interior of certain shells.