The subtle electric fire.

Around all of this is the passing of seasons. While people speak and then don't speak, as eyes light and then dim, while all the world's souls swerve about each other and then retreat, there are the roots, the light, and the winds. Their movement, the way they change the world, blows about our dust, our skin shed. I have left my flecks of hope in pockets about my homes. There I have placed my fires. They are centers where I danced in the arms of those I knew. Here I have placed mine in the open air on a downtown street near buses and busy markets, but all those past sparks still know and flicker with my movements. Change is what makes the world the perpetual same. But on the end of each night, spent late with the moon until the birds start to wake up and greet each other, what happens to me is my one habit. I get up from my seat and let my dog out the door into the backyard, this prince who was our boy. While he is out, I clean my teeth, loosen my clothes, and pour some cold water. And when I am ready I open the door again, letting the night in on the squeak of hinges. I stand with it for a moment, or sometimes call out with a low whistle, and then listen to the bound and breath of that boy racing from the yard. His black fur in the night skips over every back step and inside. This is the one point around which each day swings, the quick and quiet gait of habit that comes at me through the darkness.