A May day. Gray day.
A kind of heaviness here, thick as conversation even when I have nothing to say.
It is spitting some rain as I step outside.
North of Fairwater, the field that used to be alfalfa is worked to black smoothness; and so is the field across the road from it where, all spring, geese had been setting down to feed.
It's a day neither this nor that, neither hot nor cold, not spectacular. It is only and exactly what it is. Now, if we could get that much truth from everything....