sage and ginger

One crow sits on the porch and his caw seems timed, a perfect heartbeat. I am putting moisturizer on my face, stuff I bought because it was additive-free and on sale, stuff I would not buy normally even if I could afford it, which I can’t. I am thinking of what I am not thinking of.

I don’t often get caught in this loop, just sometimes when I am tracing an old pattern. The crow’s caws trick my brain into silence. Thoughts settle like sediment and then I think: what am I not thinking of?

For once, I am not thinking of guilt over my morning routine, of how long it takes or how loud each movement might be.

The house smells like last night’s sage and ginger. One cat’s meow forces syncopation. Then the crow leaves, and it is just bare feet on wood floor, fur against shin, the rustling of a comforter. Time ticks again, and tugs with it a long rope of schedules and increments. That moment of no-moment was enough.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.