Warm today; almost balmy. Everything feels full, ripe, expectant. But still it doesn't rain. Yellow leaves linger on the trees: only a few fall silently, slowly, through the pregnant air. I used to dive for pennies in my stepfather's pool. I'd watch them fall through the water like that, in slow motion, sideslipping, spinning, hesitating.
Not a sound from the birds. There's a hell of a rain building up.
Brimming with love: the slightest jostle would spill it. Carrying all this light. It's like carrying a saucer full of milk downstairs. It doesn't really matter if some falls: the cat will get it anyway.
It gets harder and harder to understand, as I get older. Everything becomes more obscure. I'm no longer afraid of not doing what I was sent here to do. I know I will do it. Or I already have done it. But I know less than ever what it is.
For now, carefully, step by step, with a warm shadow at my feet.