Half Turn, Quarter Rock

Hair hanging, not hanging, more like static-charged, but limp, not limp, just normal, gravitationally normal, relatively long, shiny. Half turn, quarter rock, two brown eyes. Up the hill, I see something glisten but don't know if it was really there. A fleck of dust, bright sunlight reflecting or refracting. Forest spirits? The beehive, el laberinto de pan. Drying, crisp orange leaves slipped in, forming a leaf-myrtle carpet. Twenty-five minutes, for twenty-five minutes I've been awake. Making tea, brown rice for lunch. Twenty-five minutes away from this checkered dream, a taxi cab, an elegant dark wooden coffee table. The perfect one. "It was nice to see you," she said. And the one on the other side said "Okay" and half-giggled, half-bagged the next customer's items. Early mornings are the best. I have to check on the rice, finish my tea, and head out there. Examine what may be the second frost, bare trees, except for the protected ones on my hill. They keep them that way, never quite losing summer, perhaps at their own peril.