Unwound, Free

One version or the other of my life perpetually here, or near to here, and I can't recall a July like this—air like streamers of silk against the skin, and the high light of dusk, and a dawn that nudges in. The birds sing like they haven't before, and there are more of them, and there is a generosity about the hours; they make room.

Take it, I tell myself. Take it; it is yours.

I hurry through nothing. I sit and I read. I write a sentence, and then I close my eyes and dream. When I wake, the