Small gods on the playground

could numbers be our muse?

This morning I am awaiting news from everywhere. Such as the number of eggs the ducks laid last night so that I can update the egg collection chart, acceptances/rejections, the muse, I am waiting on the muse. And the mailman. I can’t think of much else I am waiting for, but all that feels like a lot, and I wish there were even more to compensate for this slow, slow island vibe. 

In college, I used to have words and sentences come to me as I walked home or wherever else. I felt like a child coming home from school, muttering the same words over, perhaps out loud, I don’t know. It doesn’t work like that much anymore, but I would accept it if did (who wouldn’t?). I have to be patient these days.

…

Eight eggs this morning. Two found in the kiddie pool. One rolled down the stream and is lost, burried. A. texts me, Maybe every puddle is full of eggs.

Last week I sat around a table eating pizza and drinking cider with 5 people who are farmers and not only farmers but also sailors, teachers, chefs, musicians.