Sail with every wind.

Something of the house when I come back to it late this night. The windows, opened that afternoon to let in the warm, wild winds, are open still. Once the sun went, the currents filled in my absence with the pulse and breath of a new feel for the rug at my feet. The winds knew of my afternoon, and of the rending brightness that turned a corner towards me with birds in her arms. And now with the last drink, I stand inside the whirl of my living room as those beams of breeze, phantoms, build themselves around me. I think that they know more, and listen to look through that thought. Their hands still flicker, tumble about my collar, and the heat of my face slowly strikes a match with the cool of coffee-coloured strands and shapes of sweet dark that billow in. There is goodness out there, bustling and elegant, and it flows here in my home as I stand still to hold its spill upon my palms.

Yeah, for a little while.

This past weekend the Nephew's Basketball Association came to town for a provincial tournament. They were all eight or nine or ten, and it is strange seeing how good these small people can play. Their supporters are very enthusiastic.

(The blog compresses videos really terribly.)

Champs. My boy is #5.