The sun’s scrawling leaf shadows on the grass—
Clapping out a beat to the harmonious wind,
Watching underneath the tree: Me. Delight.
Dead twigs like busted guitar strings twang
Among the living…Grounded in Los Angeles,
With summer coming and an uncertain fate,
Making decisions every second—to breathe,
Even; it’s a mess, this place and Being in it. But
There’s the shadow writing to read, the music
Aeolian, and The Maker Sun to study in the steady
Discipline of Doing Nothing, the way the many
Moments pass without intention, like the Sun
Making leaves (and simulacra leaves) by shining.