Thursday

Sometimes the blue wind flows within the trees with all the richness of a tasty deep-noon sky and I look at this petit hill and ponder. Inside of every acorn is a large tree. But inside every large tree are hundreds of acorns. Which, then is more special? The acorn, which can hold inside it a tree thousands of times its own size? Or the tree, which can produce thousands of these tiny miraculous things?

When the wind blows hair into my eyes I smile. When it rains hard, I smile. Mishap isn’t anything like injury. It is a pulse.