I didn't know hummingbirds stopped moving, but there he is sitting and resting on a telephone wire, letting his heartrate calm down. We're listening to my neighbor's terrible punk rock coming from his garage. The bird's friends are somewhere else and I'm enjoying his aloneness like it was company, from here on my hammock.
It's the end of a good week.
I have a job interview on Monday, and I feel like there is a weight off of my chest. Different weight than usual. Like when things have been bent and stretched so far that eventually, you know they will snap.
Like when you know that if you keep placing the same bet, you will eventually win some kind of prize. If you wait long enough, a bus will come to take you north or south, because there is a bus schedule.
There is a pattern of interruptions to silence, if you are just, like, super patient.
Collect moments of sticking your arm out of the window and coasting 44 mph.
The smells, the chlorine and the beer and the basements and warm skin.
Days of no headaches. Days of long runs.
Scratch those days off the wall.
For a short time, I am here. For a long time, I will be there.
There is a happiness to catch out of the air like a lightning bug. If you are like, super patient and work hard. (They glow for a moment, disappear, and then glow somewhere else.)
Be good. Be kind. And keep your eye out for it.
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