Yellow Pencil
The steamed-up window breathes beside me. I set the tip of my pencil on the notebook, and umbrellas drift past like dots of color.
The Smell of Dry Grass
Every time your four paws step on dry grass, it rustles. Following that sound, step by step, you are walking into the morning.
First Snowflake
Where you lingered at the window and left, a single snowflake came down and touched the glass. I watch for as long as it takes to disappear.
Water Bowl
The midday sun drew a round patch of light on the ground. The water in the bowl had gone down a little. It was the place where someone's day had passed by half a day or so. Looking at the bowl, I thought of the shade where the cat's throat would have moved as it drank. That house has never opened its door to me, but in front of it, someone's day is always alive.
Where the Wind Stopped
The sound of wind brushing my ears filled the whole morning. The fingers holding my hat tightened. The moment the wind stopped, there was the sound of the silver grass rising all at once, in order. On windy days I let the dust gather on the windowsill and leave it. I was just beside the stove, ears pricked. All my palm could feel was a single taut cord. When you only listen to the wind, you end up sitting not at the windowsill but at the edge of the porch, waiting for the wind that has paused a moment. Where the ears were pricked, the stove's blue flame clung quietly. The dust at the window stirs in the wind and settles again. The silver grass still stands, and only the stove's light keeps its place.
Clothesline
I, too, looked up once at the sky over your way.