The day off demanded the jettisoning of shoes and the polite face for customers. The Farmington river ran through the rocks; technology was eschewed.


Skipping stones again to travel with the currents—somewhere moving underwater toward the fishermen waiting for their catch.


The boy plays with his floating water shoes, pleading to “Look! Look again!”—not ready for school in a handful of days. He, too, not wanting to wear shoes—only to join his father on the kayak.


Videos captured too much rainfall and summer storms and too few sea vicissitudes—undulations of waves that don’t find shore dwellers; not knowing pain.


The Book, finished for now, looms outside the horizon and the House with its attendant chaos and messy inhabitants.


Fall, a trustworthy character, fidgeted off stage, waiting for the hummingbird to leave forever; for the tree frog to find its way from the garage.


Stuck on the stair of present and future, the dreamer fears vertigo and stares at the moon ascending the river; grateful the body reclines. Feet massaged with sea minerals and rose hips. The back horizontal and glad.


Thoughts, vertical, are thankful for extraordinary space. The Book, the pendulum swing of clock, the loss of night in the labyrinth.



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