My steps are longer these days, wider gait. Shirts are not as pressed (never were). There is enough on the book table bed side so that I feel obligated to stay focused, and my wallet is thin enough to get me out the door early. So little time to rest. But at the end of the road, one presumes it is never about the rest.

We floated in the river the other night cussing a bad motor. The old man from next door bailed us out but before he got there I had to really listen to the noise of a brackish river, Sunday nine pm. There was a racket of chattering, blue cats on the surface, water moving. Ducks. For most people the television is on and the worlds beyond the windows are only obtrusion of intermittent noise, sorry pranks to break the spell of fiction. But think what intrusion we are on them. I tried to stay silent in my white now-quiet flotilla, and we drifted toward panicum grass with tide against wind, powerless in a world of moving parts, and everything was alright. Everything was fine. So my steps are longer, and I know there is a sprint left before the walk is over.