Silence, and the ticking of the clock.
It is a grey day, the sky is
grey and casts a grey light
on the still trees.  The haar
casts grey dust on the hill:
it is quiet, nothing moves.

I saw a black dot on the
inside of my toe
when I got out of bed:
a raised dot, a tick!
In communion with the day,
yesterday, how did it
find its way down, all the
way down into my
thick sock
and nestle at the end of my body
in my sturdy boot?  A long
journey for so tiny a thing.
A tiny alarming thing,
nestling where it was
warm and moist, sucking.

I removed it,
it is gone.
Maybe today
I will go to town.

One Year Round The Sun
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