Like a letter someone writes in the early hours,
as rain turns all the windows to skin.
Like the ink that streaks across the vellum
surface, ending in a flourish or a dash.
Like the light that filters upward from the ground
as mid-day heat; or condenses in beads of sweat.
Like a blur, like a wing, like a shard;
like a face passing behind the shutters.
Like the sky that’s often mistaken for weather;
and the world beneath it going where it goes.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.