This morning a brown dog behind a white fence saw me and prepared to bark. But before speaking he turned his head the other way, so that he barked, deliberately and distinctly,
This prepared me for an epiphany that never came ― that the world’s gifts were meant for not-me after all, that my accepting hands and nods of gratitude were a charade, the motions of a surplus self-indulgence. But the wind pressing lightly and a row of double-daffodils nodding yellowly were pressing and nodding catholically, embodying their souls regardless of who might be present.
Imagine if your own self were so persistent ― identically complete before the incumbent mayor and a five-year-old child and your brown-eyed lover. What would it avail us? I say it would avail us wholeness enshrouded in a deep, deep stillness. A new universe, decidedly not-human, decidedly not-me.