It is Saturday, day of release and rest. Still there is weight to it. A clay insistence. Saturn's reckoning. What will you make of this?
Nothing in me wants to move. So what of that?
Filigree of birdsong. One primrose in the weeds. How the success of a tease opens his focused grimace into ease. The neighbor's porch palm and the neighbors' sunning. The fuschia band of his briefs above the slate gray of his pants. The privacy I duck my glance away from. Thump of the washer with its load unbalanced.
I come to rest on the sandy river bed. I am the sand, what settles below movement. Still and still. The high notes of sun playing through. The breakage and delight. I am the rush and the whir of the currents flowing everywhere, into everything. So cool and so heedless and so pressing. Over my eyes, flowing, over my skin. I am. Here. I am.