Be So Bold

The fruit flies in the kitchen have died. The nights are black; I had to leave my bicycle in their courtyard because I had forgotten the lights. There are new houseboats in the harbor, all with renovation materials and paint buckets stacked along the decks. They seem like great migrating birds, resting here now, preparing for many miles ahead, the cold winter. My carefully weaved threads begin to unwind with wear; I consider packing my bags, painting my deck, and joining the migration.

Have you unpacked your bags yet? Have you settled for winter? My skin trembles in your wake. It seems we should be living these miles, together.