It is Thursday, the shepherd's song rises over the bracken, a thready refrain calling us home. I am haunted by things I almost know to say. Peripheral vision. And ceaseless scatterings.

Rolling over in my bed, forming my gladness cup, I thought: I'm almost glad of this, this hardness, unpenetrated, ready to repeat the motions of showing up smiling. Will almost glad do?

I am glad of the shock of the square and solid roundness of my head in reflection without any length of hair to distract from it. The is what it is'ness of my shaved head. The way it makes me smile when greeting another because I recognize the surprise of it in them. It's like a joke we're sharing and I want to say: I know, right?

So let me focus in on work this morning. Let me get work done. Then let me turn and hostess the ladies tonight. Then let me be done with that, washed clean of that.