It is Sunday, bottom of the well. Yesterday's small acts become tangling vines. I am gone under.
Sunday, heartsore, weary. Where is the gladness in this?
I am glad of the paint stains on his fingers. The feather of the small dog's tail. The open palm of the coming hours. The blue and gold the day wears like a badge. The promise of a drive out through rolling hills under all this sky.