A girl I was hopelessly in love with when I was thirteen is in town: she wants to have coffee. If convenient. How many eddies does that raise, in the current?
On my morning walk, I saw the crows scolding and dive-bombing a cat unmercifully: she crept under one of those little rental "smart cars" to get away from them. First the fireworks, now this. The car was very low to the ground: she was just a blur with a twitching tail, under there.
Americans waddle by, with their huge bellies, their teardrop upper arms and thighs. They look so kindly, and so frightened. I want to reassure them: it is indeed a very dangerous world, but it's still not as dangerous as that.
One of those mornings, when every mouth in the restaurant is opening and closing, and every leaf on the trees outside is lifting and dropping: all the world is murmuring, murmuring, but none of the messages are for me. But the wind still brings them to me, leaves them on the mat, and expects to be praised for them.
A dream of faded fabric, of smooth buttons under my fingers, the braided threads rising to my fingers' mouths: the coded braille of sewing machines. More misdirected messages I can't decode, don't know how to forward.
Still, the love itself is very simple. The dishes longed to be washed, and now they drowse happily, dried and safe, on the shelves. Their voices, at least, speak to me clearly. They thank me, in the varied tongues of china, glass, and steel; sleepy voices, like the evening birds.