There are crows in the corn and a nip in the air.

It is a haunting, the absence in my day.

She slips through my hands like warm water, gentle and trickling, but cannot be held.

Again she sleeps, beer fueled slumber. And I know she won’t sleep for too long, the phone will ring, and she may or may not rise. I ask…

Some call it “grit”, but I am more invested than that.

It’s a cold spring rain.

Such a small frivolity,

It’s a dull ache, It traverses me — head — legs — gut. It haunts me as I climb the stairs once again. I am not getting older. I am just…

We say goodbye to snow, the sun is shining down on the muck and turns it into dirt.