The light seems low to the ground this morning. Like the sky has slept hard and heavy and is just beginning to stretch. The clouds even look like they are stretching diaphanous–I am reminded of carding wool as a kid. I am full as I sit here in my segment of bus booth bench….thinking about all of the conversations I had this weekend at the meeting in Saint Louis, thinking of Chile, thinking of my clowns of God, and of the streamlined birds bobbing their praise as they make their morning commute, stopping off on the stack of New York Times at the bodega on the corner.
Thinking too of the glory in picking up a blue-ink barita mágica and having at creation once again with the laying down of wonder for a moment’s rest on the page.