A day of dry mouth. The wind storm you face. The light sauce. Gravity. Slow walk. You go up the road to leave the city. You count the empty bottles thrown into ditches as there are black spots on the backs of ladybugs. Before you, a little bald old forges ahead. Overturned garbage cans. Anything that is not stationary moving too fast. Vine remains gray. The genets turgid. This bee wedged in the sun on a stone. Fewer and fewer people. The plastered houses. The shadow on the stucco. An entire field of thistles. The muddy road. The foul breath of the dog. You put your ass in the grass. Something rough and simple that the sky is giving you. Your node expands.
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