A mouthful of coffee grounds is something to do. Heat lightening to the north, salmon-colored clouds southeast. A rooster cries a couple of yards over and you can climb into the sound, you can live in it, it lasts forever. What might one call a Thoreauvian theory of time? We are still picking up refuse from a storm that happened years ago.
Yet in all that walking, there was not even a hint of bear and so we came back saddened, heavy in a way we resist. The neighbor's dog growled as we approached and so we said quietly "good morning (insert name of dog here)" and turned around. The old streetlight, the old gang, the old way of saying please love me. One is always angling for the graveyard. And another way of saying it is to say there's nothing to do and never was.
I woke angry, but the anger cleared, and so the walk went smoother, like tea just so. A cool breeze preceded the thunder which arrived as dawn was slipping off its veils. Luck or God, you decide, but leave me out of it. Certain streaks of cloud suggested an energy that was in love with itself and held little regard for the comfort of others. Be not afraid, indeed.
A theory of poetry that involved umbrellas is perfect for the moment! If you're going to sleep in a manger, I hope you're not asthmatic. One keeps pliers on hand, one is always ready for "the show." You get closer to the quill and think you're there but you're not, not really. Try this one for size: there's nobody out there to save.