Only a beige slat of sun above the horizon, like a shade pulled not quite down. Otherwise, clouds.
Sea rippled here and there. Birds reluctant to fly.
The mind wants a shaft of sun to stir the grey porridge of clouds, an osprey to stitch sea to sky with its barred wings, some dramatic music: a symphony, perhaps a Chinese gong.
But the mind always wants more than it has—
one more bright day of sun, one more clear night in bed with the moon;
one more hour to get the words right; one more chance for the heart in hiding to emerge from its thicket
in dried grasses—as if this quiet day with its tentative light weren’t enough,
in dried grasses—as if this quiet day with its tentative light weren’t enough,
as if joy weren’t strewn all around.