être.

I feel
The warm sun, Poking holes in the trees, dancing from behind it's shadows upon my dry skin, leaving a touch of dewy moisture.
I hear the sound of skill saws and weedeaters; the subtle rustle of the leaves that skip side-over-side down the asphalt; the chirpchirpchirp of crickets getting an early start before dusk.
I smell
The scent of fresh cut wood. And grass. And the salty-sweaty scent the sun accumulates upon my skin.
I see fall all around me: the shorter days, the drifting leaves, the waning tan from my legs. It's a front-porch sit with a book I've tried to read three times now.
I am the transition between fiery sun and cool apathy. I am one-eye-closed reading; my heart half here and half there; my mind half-present in reality, half-meandering in dreams. I taptaptap my toes to a song that's not playing on Colorado today. I read and I think and I write, then I crumble it up and throw it away. The dissonance is frustrating on it's best day. But today, it seems irrelevant.
Today, je suis être. je dois être. And the tiny sweat-bee that lands on my knee must be okay with that. Because I am not moving from here.