Daughter foraged for caterpillars in birches.
Rain pattered on the deck, stopped, started.
An ant explored the cabin floor. Body ached.
How would the day progress? How end?
Why ask? How to prevent self from asking?
By midday the sun was shining and one hour
Later the sky was darkening. It wasn't a fault
Of the local weather, however, that thoughts
That had always folded in on themselves,
Often in the fiction of a person, grew darker.
Back at the village, the intersections of our
Lives made the full use of time impossible.
A mind is a universe parallel to itself
But without enough tracks to run on.
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