This morning:

Fuzzy Chinese radio from a neighbor's window, a sky so blue I don't know how to address it, checking my bamboo plant (the stem is spotted black and the roots are suspended in water), reading an old copy of O. Henry Prize stories, writing, missing. I'm thinking about last summer, when my mother and I washed white deck chairs full of spiderwebs and how the water ran down my legs and down the unpaved driveway. And how she put up a wind chime that day and wondering if, when winter comes, it will freeze in the snow.