It is Monday, this back door, this workman's entrance into the way of things. Called home, we touch down again, one toe, soft landing, here we are. Whatever it was I was dreaming is a secret only the dishes in the cupboard know, the arm of the chair I don't sit in, the boys' reflection in empty glass. It's nothing to do with the leaves at the top of the oak with the wind riffling through them. They would tell me if it were.
Telling: Streams & Logs