The sun is just up where I live, so it’s up to me now. This new day, this new light, this unfolding of unused time. See it? How it slips across the dining room table and on out to the pasture? How is rides the backs of the sheep and the small grasses, the stillness? And on out the lane to the road and turning left and right simultaneously? This new day, this new light. It’s up to me now, no doubt. I can do whatever. I can pout, sing, walk twenty miles, I can do whatever. But it won’t always be thus. Because there is the coming of diminishment, the fact of my lessening, the same new days, the same new light, the same unfolding of unused time…but without me. So. So what I’m going to do now is go outside and tend to the animals. All the animals will come running when I show up. Then I’m going to pick beans, both knees firmly in contact with earth, my hands working, the buckets gradually filling, one green, one yellow, this new day spread across my neck, my back, both arms, my one small soul.