What comes out of these tired fingers today? Pondering, hesitant searches for words or thoughts. I know there is a lot more in here, but for some reason there is an intake of breath. If I pay attention this will be a restful time for meditation. Peaceful regrouping. If I fight, it will be a losing battle, scratching for substance, pitting weary mind and body against a universe moving like a wave onto a roil of sand and saltwater.

Relax. Let the air move. Breathe of, and into it. Let the scent of autumn turn off ambition and want. Let wood smoke lull you to rest on a pillow of cool air and leaves. Let the sunrise on a fall day paint the window and wall with tangerine smoke and plan for nothing. Let the color set your minds’ purpose. Let the hue of the sky draw your gaze upward and let your mind follow so that your feet are pulled from the earth and your heart can lift toward the cloud-layered depth to rest suspended.

Walk and look up. Look up at the crowns turning color, the movement of boughs as you transit. Look up at the inner city monoliths, mirrored walls, rock faces, iron fists thrusting; look up at the painting of your mind on the ether. Watch egg-blue and opaque-grey mix; clouds flowing before infinity, existence strung between an idea and the end of time. The act of moving on the road animates the canvas, and this world turns slowly around your center, pirouette for a dancer tipping on balance, wondering and writing for the beauty of it all.