My coming his going. A politeness. That intent. Miscalculated trajectories. How can we judge the rhythms of others? How does the jumper step into the swing of the rope? Was that my doing? Us, it was us.
Kneeling on the honey floor, in pajamas, with a towel to mop the wet. The dogs asking questions with their tongues, the pads of their paws. More fun than breakfast this. A walk of mud now all down the back of his robe.
If I had language now, I would wrap it in this.