a gift carried back from Xian. No gift better than crossing her mind. The mercury rising, the metal fob hot in my palm after a day on the paint. Bees and blossom out in the old orchard, first day of summer. Beer for the working man. A silent, private glimpse of the moon in the kitchen, Nick Drake whispering to me. I have to be up at seven for the carpet man. We don’t choose the path, the path chooses us. But be humble, every breath is a wonder.
