Mid day

empty nests under the bridge
a flock of large geese at dusk
the smell of campfire is still lodged in my brain.
Waves crashing onto rocks and the exact weight of your hand.

distracted, sidetracked, lack of interest.
daydreaming, reading, petting the cat, listening to music, feeling the sunlight, feeling the cold edge of the wind.
I can do these things for hours without accomplishing anything. I wish I was an avocado, wish I was a bicycle spoke, wish I was a tiny brown bird hopping around in pine needles, wish I was that branch stretching into the sun and bouncing in the breeze.

My 5th grade teacher told me I was so very arty and it was appropriate that I was teaching kids how to draw things. Nevermind that it is not them teaching me how to draw the things they love instead. I wish I could eat their scritchy wiggly lines across the pages, those lines that are light and shy, the lines that are dark and hard and never erase from the page; I wish I could eat them and take them in and draw with that kind of innocent heart.

I drew my own hands, sign languaging letters that I learned in 5th grade, LYL, and drew them in black ink onto a paper cut and pasted it to the railroad bridge, and walked away and when I looked at it from afar the lines did not seem like my own, but they made my heart swell . something was in the lines that I could not describe, only feel.