Clear, Fog

The rain is so light it barely textures the surface of clear, still Lake Michigan.  I can see angular boulders make a path under the water and I want to walk rock to rock until the water submerges me, too.

Like a plow, the beach comber made its shrinking circles around the sand. My dog and I stood at the top of the concrete steps separating beach from city to watch and wait. The machine seemed to change its course to finish the section in front of us. It felt like he was combing that bit just for us, but I figured it was more like  finishing off a golf hole. We stood and watched his figure eights disappear unswept sand, and then he honked and waved for us to come down to the beach; he had changed his course for us. We were royalty. In cotton shorts, flip flops and a t-shirt, I commanded a presence. Sometimes I forget I'm not invisible.

Since the hospital, I've been feeling better in that I'm more inclined to get shit done and only had bad pain yesterday evening through now. I was crazy light sensitive before that, but light's not bugging me anymore.

I feel like I'm in a temporal hiccup where I constantly cross paths with past, present, and future versions of myself. These sorts of lessons get learned much faster on television.