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Today, sometimes, is not like the day before. Something, some balance of infinite factors, has shifted, or just tipped slightly closer to a shift. The heat opens one eye and looks around.
The shoreline becomes the way that beckons, the journey and the destination, the light that opens, the borderline between worlds that cannot be parted, a looping lightshot world of its own.
Small trout gather up the light rise by rise, take that world on their bright shoulders, move it over and over using the fulcrum of their vibrant life.
Shoreline, borderline, which way is the way? The beginning is also the ending. The day is tipping over. The heat closes its eyes, biding its time.
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