Flecked with silver rain.
One approach to studying trees is to go out after a heavy rain and look down. The manhole cover has become a mirror; the unruffled puddle shows me sprays of green, a knit of branches, and gray-white skies beyond.
The oboe scampers from one note to another. It slips between the piano's crushing chords.
To be dealt with despairingly or, I hope, determinedly.
She settles here for a day, finding some rest for herself, and when she leaves I realize once again that she's helped make my home feel more like home.
At lunch there's Pygmalion, post-modern art, and Prussia.
A band of pressure throughout the week, beneath the heart.