Small things.

Today, another marathon day. Tomorrow, yet another. Friday, yet again. So, this evening, impromptu almost-pick-up bocce, the grass short and wet, the light already going. A game, some sparklers, some dogs. Laughter and running barefoot to claim closeness (my aim has run true!). Forgetting the usual fear of glass, of foot-cuts, crossing Middle Path to write our names with dying sparks under the silently musical angels I don't even like all that much. (Occasionally they beckon.)

Tonight, glimpsed from the coffee shop, one of my summer students, walking along on the sidewalk, her nose in Beloved.

Last night, a fifth poem, this one in a swinging meter, anapests and dactyls, my favorite feet. Three days ago, I changed the name of the file containing the poems so that it's no longer the first poem's title; now, it's simply "Poems." I am starting to scan people's speech, listening for rhythms, feeling out words and finger-counting syllables.