Thursday Notes:
9 am - Where I walk, the hungry skulk of coyote, hunting his breakfast along the edges. And then lunch. And then dinner. And then breakfast.
11 am - A tiny blade of grass, green as springtime and determined to come up between two rocks. In the open field it would also have withered, but without my notice.
2 pm - The odd suddenness of a laundromat; thrown into a batch with a world of children and parents and neighbors and grandparents and languages and smells, whole households emptied in a jumble and united by the dirt of daily living. We all belong. Sort, wash, spin, notice, remember. Rinse. Repeat.
7 pm - A walk, needing only a very light jacket, in February. Stars.
(Give thanks.)