I am leaping into blackness, and it is home, and it is intoxicating. I am drinking Washington, tasting the land, reading books from my friends and words from my friends and writing with ink they sent and crying and laughing.
Everything is in its place,
go back in time, follow the sun, and I will wait at dawn, and I will jump into the river and not drown. I will look at a blackened screen on my porch and be surprised by aliveness, and I will look at volcanic clouds over the river and be surprised by aliveness, and I will look at signs that say Broke Need $ over television sets and be surprised, and I will look at fragrant purple waters at sunset and be surprised, and I will look at fans blowing and be surprised, and I will taste and feel Washington on my throat and lips while being in Maine and be surprised, and I will see wood sculptures of deer struggling to leap and be surprised, and I will walk surprised through traffic jams and road construction crews over crumbling bridges surprised, and I will watch as the same child rides her bike past a dozen times coming from the same direction on the street, very alive. And because you don’t know any word for goodbye, I will sit in front of a church’s “Morning Worship” sign saying, see you I see you I’ll see you.