Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The morning tastes of preserved blackberries and peanuts melting on toast. The thickness cut by the chill and harsh bubbles in my frosted glass. No coffee. My vegetables and plans crowd the table around my plate. Anaheims, Early Girls, avocado, my notebook and pencil. I look up through the slats to an opening in the dull grey, a patch of hopeful blue. It shrinks all too quickly and then disappears. The window breeze raises tiny bumps on the skin of my left arm. I'm too close. My feet, both of them, are cold. I shrug my shoulders near to my ears, a tense comfort, a reflex. This is August.