Almost Canadian

The sound of rain on leaves is soft. It reminds me I am sheltered, only feeling a drop here and there that slips through. In this moment of reality, I am the one who has to be here, to do this, to feel this.

The street lamp can’t decide if it should be off or on. Sun doesn’t set for maybe 2 hours, but the grey is steady. Birsdong is clearer in the wet. Grey sets off green sets off life.

I came to the park to stop feeling lonely by myself. Here thoughts are not harmful. Here I can almost remember what it feels like to simply exist—exist without a pressure to do something else, exist swallowed up in the space around me. There is power in that experience, a vessel absorbing damp smells and woodpecker taps and coarse mud with little rocks.

Even now I keep checking in—is it time to go home? Do I need to get back? It feels as if I should draw, create something, but that is not where my talents lie, and so I will have to make do with words.