Telling: Streams & Logs


I could live here

The day is waiting for the predicted cold. The sky is white and slightly curdled above the trees. Fat drops fall from the eaves. The birds sing on.

On the kitchen floor, the dogs sprawl, waiting for a degree of dryness that will free them into the house-at-large where there are carpets and seat cushions.

I am not waiting for anything. The day's dim casts my hand's shadow on this page, soft as a kiss.