Fussy wren scolding nothing in particular. Night crickets softening their cadence. Day rises. Experience flowers open as this mind turns the page of this mind.
Books and crickets, wrens and words, layers sewn with the same thread. The center of this book is empty. White pages filled with light.
What an oddity – this life – like a snowball in summer. Our marriage to memory failing, now we sleep in separate beds.