How It Came to Me

Baltic sun, early winter, silly pastime, drinking coffee beside a Viking mound, putting thoughts in a notebook, as if my life had salubrious virtues, as if something of “me” might be original, that conceit of the young though I was easily 25 and had read enough to know my vanity—but keep in the present, pouring from a Thermos, bundled against the cold, and a stone moves, granite changes position, just an inch.