Winter approaches and I am slower, less sweet, less ripe.
I can feel the world moving around me and I am fascinated with it's workings. I stand in line and listen to the talking around me. I shut the door to my car and watch a couple of crows repeatedly drop a hard shell, trying to split it open on the asphalt. At work the babies cry and catch my eyes before taking another breath to scream, making sure I am watching, making sure I care. At home my children move as quickly and strangely as always, unique and totally separate from me, never separate from me. Mr. Curry moves toward and away from me in the tide of marriage. We cleave. The Hispanic workers play penny games on the concrete in the sides of alleys. A woman in the car next to me opens her mouth as wide as she can at the stop light. Maybe she is worried she has the flu. Maybe she is checking for herpes. Maybe she has dry mouth or lipstick on her teeth. The park is full of birds and their cries scatter with the leaves as I move through the dirt path. At night the TV talks and dances and I feel the quiver of the arrow as it hits its mark.