It is Thursday, things coming undone. Waiting for the roofers and their ladders and nails. Dry as sand inside my shell.
There are places it's hard to get to gladness from.
Surrounded by the density of Enough (for now). That unmoving. That thin cutting edge, pressing. A croquet ball in the field, listening for the breath of the mallet. Sunny and still. A thing of impact.
I have lived too long in the air.
The little dog comes to me for the view my lap affords. The heat of her, the weight of her watching, is a doorway. She lets the birdsong in.