Tending tiny trees is a way to know the world. These kittens are not vocal in their purring, but they are delicate and adorable and pathetic (pathetic in the deserving of compassion sense, not in the scornful pitying sense). I have two baby trees and one of them appears to be flourishing, with a thicker and redder trunk. The other seems to be wasting away, wisping itself into soon-to-be nothingness. I’ll continue to softly play with both. Maybe I’ll whisper to the wispy one about its parentage, about strength, and about absorption.
It’s morning, warm, and Juney. The coffee has run out. I consider making more. I decide to use the last of my beans to make it happen, though it will be a watery cup of Costa Rican magic dust-water. I consider breakfast. To add fish to the spicy cinnamon sweet potato eggplant thing in the fridge? Or to get a skillet from the cash only place and eat it at the counter, drinking definitely not watery coffee? An embarrassment of options-riches. I might also wait to eat until after a bike ride with my neighbor-friends. But I always feel moderately self-conscious when I’ve eaten as many burgers as they’ve had beers within forty five minutes. So perhaps best to spread out the feeding.
The morning spreads on, inching towards the hot late morning. The trees protect me and my spicy coffee; adding cinnamon, cardamom, coriander, and nutmeg prevents the water coffee from tasting wanting; it’s quite the opposite. The cod is cooking in the cinnamon sweet potato eggplant, breakfast will be at home today. I’ve been trying to be home a little more. It’s often my instinct to leave home at every energetic opportunity, when sleep doesn’t compel me to stay. But my dusking requires more homeing. And so here I sit, well past down, well before dusk, feeling the afterglow through the shimmering leaves. Watching the dogs go by. And the babies. Am I going by to these creatures in motion? Am I standing still, inhaling coffee potion? The neighborhood is waking up.
Roman Ryan 