it’s the rain, the cleansing. It hasn’t rained for so long now. Everything is dirty, rank. It’s been like living out of a car, a laundry basket of soiled clothes. You never feel clean. You just want to draw up, close your petals; ignore the filth.
Maybe it’s my boy’s breathing. Slow, steady, sleep breaths—human breaths—here beside my bed. He’s always close. It’s strange how I will open the gate for a dog.
Maybe it’s that I conquered myself and laid back down, ignored the compulsion, the flaw, and slept for another half hour.
Whatever it was; I feel rested, awake; in the deep places sleep rarely reaches.