It is Saturday and the kettle's on to boil. The dogs are pacing and the spider is rebuilding. I have spilled and frozen, spilled and frozen, too liquid bright for sleep, a shimmering. Here we are now with conversation between us. A jester's voice, teasing, leveling. Dark and easy confidence. How we laugh and lift the fallen pieces to build them up again.
I will gather myself and go, leave one for another. The plains for the thickets. There will be berries and the sound of water.