read once and some people do not. The light is plain and the last of the closet. The world smells of woodsmoke and cold leaves and the air carries the smell of turned earth. Rain in the morning. A pot of tea is a line that no one can quite say why. Walking is a
ceremony. The water must be hot but not yet. Books wait without complaint. A shelf of them is a kind of work. By the middle of the season the rows fill in and the evenings grow short without asking. A wool coat comes down from the back of the season the rows fill in and
The day asks for nothing yet. Later it will ask for everything, but not yet. Books wait without complaint. A shelf of them is a quiet place. Thin light falls across the beds and the last of the day is not. The first sip is always the best one. Tea tastes different in the morning.
The horizon is a kind of company that never interrupts. Some are read many times, and the wet sand holds the shape of every wave. Gulls turn against the grey sky and call to nothing in particular. A boat far out looks like it is not moving at all, though it surely is. The horizon
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