Beads of sun
Beads of sun; Gradientless, cloudless, planeless sky; The physical slither of uncountable leaves colliding, nature’s white noise atop a distant boulevard rumble; Right now it's "peak human temperature," (a term shared by wife and I); Plus, dramatic shadows on tutors and illuminated bushes, perfectly trimmed Japanese hedge-gardened lawn and canopies glitter the grass 'round broken shards of angular sidewalk; Pushing the baby cart, with jabbing bumps not strong enough to wake the deep snooze, in a bassinet she'll soon outgrow; I have no agenda; I have no financial worry, creative worry, familial worry, no-one-liked-my-rushed-newsletter worry; It all collapses into the eye of a sparrow, into that one-hundred year tree fallen by lightning and blocking the path at C Park; I assume we'll get tacos soon; Whatever this is, now, feels like the supreme virtue: an earned negligence to the totality of material demands; A temporary and wonderlaced stupidity.