But one night every thousand years.

This morning started next to sleeping fur and half bottles, and under the sound of light rain and heavy feet of small children being yelled at by their mother. Their floor is a loud ceiling, so I turned up the rest of Badlands in bed. Now I sit in this back yard. I wonder who put this bench here, and who has sat on it before me. The sun is out now, and in the afternoon here you can feel the wet being lifted up out of the grass. With your eyes closed, you can tilt your head slowly back and then down, and watch the orange brown light change with the direction you face in the sun. I think, only to myself now, about how weird eyelids are. And I think about some weeks I held this spring, and of the long stretches of toil that bracket them. I think about the path of years that walked towards that time, watching hair grow long. All moments spiral off into infinity. I think of the marvellous weeks that will strike through every story I have yet to write. I think next that I should go pick up one of my leaky black pens, but I stay instead, to sip my coffee and watch this brilliant toddler carry and kick a fat green walnut.