“Happiness is the longing for repetition.”
— Milan Kundera
Rain’s back, redwood stumps sliding
further into duff.
Always this flow of getting older,
shirt clinging to skin, skin clinging as much
to the surface of wet air as chilled muscle.
All morning the rain vacillates
between downpour and a slow tapping.
Afternoon arrives, and the sun
is a bright bruising in the swell of clouds.
At dusk, limbs on a slope:
bare alders, bald cascaras, my arms
pulling in blueness, some starshine.
Outside, fallen water cutting ruts
awash in darkness.