Not Exactly Light

Waiting on thunderstorms to cool things down, which they won't. Why yes I do live in a one story town, why do you ask? Adjusting - slower and slower - to the sleep patterns of summer. In a past life, crickets were less prevalent, indicating an arctic locale perhaps or maybe a hearing disability. A stray dog wanders up Main Street, clearly lost but cheerful enough, not yet desperate, and my heart does that thing where it opens too wide too fast and I fall into it like a kid whose parents are always drunk, can't help, et cetera. Three houses up, a rooster begins crowing the same time the wild birds start singing and the cats start going from window to window chattering and Chrisoula groans (in not a good way) and this is also waking up. Longing configures me a certain way and morning passes imagining blowjobs and the loveliness of reciprocity, her hips rising, grinding, under the apple trees under my tongue. There's no right or wrong time for meditation, if you're doing it, you're doing it right. Moths in the kitchen beholden to the physics we currently agree explain everything. When it's not exactly light, not exactly quiet. You salt shaker you, you umbrella.