I really don't have words this morning. The sunlight pours down through the cool air. The pancakes made and eaten. The birds saying this, saying that. My heart feeling small and hidden.
No reason why. Just is.
Much to do today. Clean out the chicken nests. Study lines. Go to the Opera House and work on set building. The list of all the things that need to be done before this play opens is starting to loom towards me like a giant pair of jaws on a neck of rubber. It will find me. The gnashing will commence.
Lily's bringing Owen out and Bop is going to take them fishing. For real fishing. In a sinkhole or a pond.
The camellias, the birds, the trees, the hanging moss in the trees, the thought of the boy and his soft smooth face which I cannot pass without kissing. These are good and real. So is the man who opens his arms and takes me to him. His old shirt is warm from his body. I press into it.
My heart feels as tiny as the finches at the feeder but, it is there. In this whole glorious world of everything and vast nothingness, it is there. It is here. I hold it up in a crystal cup, offer it out, offer it up.
It flutters, wing-like, it beats. It stills and then it gathers itself, quivers in blood-red jelly. The sunlight pours through it, lighting it like rubies.
Yes. Maybe. Probably.