A hazy lake in morning, city-straddled with refuge seekers who walk dogs, push strollers,
or the last few miles of movement left in aging bodies. My own, aching with coffee-addled
nerves takes its place, fuses itself to the silent surge. I press my arm against a
well-mossed tree for balance and lift one leg, catching a foot to stretch. The trunk
is scattered with fungi, miniscule goblets striving to catch reluctant late summer
rain. Smell of cedar and earth. Abiding warmth. Nothing has shifted yet.
