”… we cannot know why the world is and how it is given to be in the first place, but only that it is there, even though it could be ‘not to be’ there at all.” Takeshi Morisato
A loose-knit jumble
of cloud stretched over the Bay.
A mesh of August
light. The ill-defined
glare of it questioned the thing,
to my walking muse.
Somewhere as summer passes
sounds the mourning dove.