The foliage outside my window is checkered, yellow and green: where the sky shows through it's pale and uneasy. A crow mutters somewhere above. September is closing.
That I should be so deceived, still, by the games of getting and spending! But here we are, and the thin trembling equinoctial quiet is barely perceptible. Another narrow escape? Maybe. Maybe.
A few deep breaths. Short of sleep, as so often nowadays. I will nap, if I can. I no longer have to worry about naps running beyond their writ, anyway. A half glass of water sets an infallible two hour alarm.
An old blessing descends. Even though I have largely given up talking -- which, you would think, would make it easier -- I listen too seldom these days. The restless chatter of my inner monologues takes most of my attention. I need to listen more, and harder.
For example: the singing of a simple sad voice, far away.