I turned down the handle on the hydrant, satisfied enough with the water level for now.
The soft click made me know it was shut off all the way.
I walked partway to the house on grass. What do you call the sound my footfalls make?
Partway on gravel. It was kind of a muffled crunch. Like trying to eat potato chips in the library.
I looked to the last orange cotton ball cloud in the western sky and smiled at the Artist.
I tugged off one glove and stuffed it into my pocket.
I fed the cats, emptying what was left in the five-gallon bucket.
I fed Guido and made a mental note to put dog food on my grocery list.
I turned off the garage light and stepped into the wash room.
I firmly pulled the door shut behind me and peeled off my jacket.
I hung it on the nail that was like all the other nails all down the row, each hidden by a coat.
I laid Guido’s dinner bowl on the towel that covers his part-time bed.
I took in the quiet. Not even the furnace was on.
I was alone.
I was not alone.
All these things are so extremely banal.
They are each extraordinary when examining one single element at a time.
They are my normal vanilla day.
They are five hundred gifts that bundle to make a Present.
Everyday is like a birthday.
Or a rebirthday.