Tired and hungry and out of time, I wander through familiar fields and old pastures. Old fire pits, trees on which my name is carved. When the rain is heavy shotgun shells kick up from the earth and remind me of the dead. Such gentleness I require, after so many years.
She writes and says some of what she means. God waits patiently, as always. A little rain might fall is what I think, as I crest the ridge and studying the shadows below for waking deer. All I can offer are sentences, and long for the day when they dry up and blow away and let me be.
When I come home, the others have eaten the supper I made for them hours earlier. I boil some old coffee and carry it down to the maple trees, the ones surrounded by ferns. I live in the sweet spot between Life and the forms Life takes. It is not clear how many more I can help for I am tired and lonely, almost beyond words, and want only to rest now, only to sleep.
Yes, rain, a little, from north and west. And redolent breakers of thunder about five miles distant. The world softens some, and cools. I finish the coffee, and wait.