On some days, things fall so cleanly into slots you did not even know were there waiting. I like the need to hunt out a patch of grass just so soft to lay down, one not obscured from the sky shifting clouds by trees. And I feel adrift spinning while lying still, the result of cumulative mental and physical motion perpetuated throughout the entire day. When running through familiar repetition feels so damn good and right that it hurts to give up the gracefulness you are caught in. I like these summer hinting days, the way they pull at memories. Of flat and still on my back in the tilled dry dirt. Taking in each star on its own, waiting for the cyclic drone of the engine placing freight cars in the middle of a lonesome farm field. My disposition is softening.