Today, Sunday, and maybe not so different then last week’s Sunday and the one before and before. Same air, same house, same mountain water edging the roadside down. The corn shocks I stood up in October still stand in the field, and without doubt the turkeys, 15 of them, will shadow the farm’s west side at approximately 10:30 on their daily pass-by going I don’t know where. The habits of life. The pieces of living. The mundanity, the beauty. The absurdity, the transcendence. My life so small and so, too, yours, I suppose. Together our living through the length of today, Sunday, and maybe not entirely aware of that fact. For living is easy to forget. Being alive is easy to forget. Our heart beating in solitude is easy to forget. But it’s best that we remember, I believe. Surely it’s best we remember.