What trains a traveller better than the road?
The late summer morning crispy chill raised me up from the couch. Space was filled with grey, brown shades cast by the skylight. It was early but not for the car that rushed by. The light was dimmed, lactic, ambiguous, but soon it became bright.
The air is drunkening (I mean, intoxicating). Sitting in the garden again, I can hear the cricket in the log pile (it is still here!). Is it coping? Is it surviving? After a cold night, why don't you drink some sweet morning dew w/ (the restaurant writing) some promising sun?
I want to set my mind to wander, or just I want to savour this blank, lazy moment. The traffic is starting to pick up the pace, and I am chewing on the mysterious tea leaves, lost in its supposed foreign flavour.
I must have missed plenty of good words to describe how joyful this morning is. Joy in a blank, quiet, peaceful manner that I don't have smiles on my face but I have forgotten that I am breathing.
It was the school bus that ran by, the first one of the season. How are students feeling? Excited? Sleepy? Are they warm? Are they warm?
I saw this string of grass growing queerly that's drawing a delicate curve. In the garden, the squshes are maturing their fruits, the tobaccos are blossoming, the weeds are dropping their seeds on the path, the woodpecker is knocking up on the pine tree, and the rabbit is too skinny to survive the winter. But what could I say? What am I to say?
What trains a life better than the life? In a nostalgic parallel, I think I could be a peasant.