The sky’s brooding over something that it’s not ready to talk about. It’s done this all week. I won’t prod, though the night is windless and I dangle one leg up into the air to keep it from sticking to the other.
“You’re good with people,” one of my gymnasts told me tonight.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You just are.”
I appreciated that, especially on a day when I felt like the sky: sometimes a crack of light, other moments eyes squinted shut.
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