It is Sunday. A small craft on bright waters. And I on my back, with eyes closed, carried. The breeze plays over me, light and teasing. The slip and slough of the un undercurrents. I am waking slowly to the recollection of horizon, of oar and rudder and sail. The quenching of my thirst a distant thing. The recognition of the thirst itself as something answerable, a dawning. Here I am now, home again, this coming home, this slow arrival where I am, a gathering.
Telling: Streams & Logs