Always what happens is more than we can carry, said the old Swedish poet. Being blind I grow upward like a birch. I trust sunset. I expect it will do something for me. I think late day clouds are like humans who do not show their faces.
As the day ends I think of reconciliations and walk my beloved dog, a Labrador, who understands traffic. I daydream in the new deep of night. As a boy I harvested black currants with shears. Now I see them again, those scissors, cold among wet leaves.