By ten the water was back in its sanctioned places, the sun was out, the ducks were circling as they do. Stones for bread, the nights of dirt in the face, taking the sword and dropping it.
Fog is only water trying to believe.
Promise not to talk. I will sing it again. Live wood pulled down by the dying. Sun on last year's leaves. A few, older, fear their appetites, and that what they chew does not nourish them.