Food From a Hungry Ghost

This evening I am sitting on my front steps in sweat pants, socks and a t-shirt. It’s just over 60°F and because the sun is being masked by a single, long, dark cloud I am able to tolerate the bright white pages of my journal. I’ve put CTRL on the record player; I can hear the stereo clearly and serenely through the open screen door behind me. This is one of those instances, rare for me, in which comfort and vulnerability are easy to acknowledge.

Like a crow flying overhead, this moment drifts into being, lingers, then floats on. Cars are passing. There is a masked man on a skateboard wearing second-hand military gear, cruising his way down the road. A cyclist, and then another man on foot pass by, absorbed in their transit. There’s a light breeze that reminds me how close last February is, when I think about it.

I listen and I hear: birdsong, harmonizing with twilight and with SZA. The song ends, and another begins to play.