Crunch. Breeze from being swung. Fingers slice through water. Bubbles. A soft turn. Into. Away. To deepen. Dive up. Listen for miles.

Everything that is coming to me will be creators of a certain feeling. This feeling is of intention, dedication, investment, even love.

Not intention like the engineering plans for a high-rise — intention like applied foresight, hindsight and the stopping of the car, hazards on, the slow shooing of a poisonous snake off the road, the wait to satisfy safety.

Not dedication like a fully loaded curriculum vitae — dedication like when I get to the end of spinning this string it will feel so good. The turn around and stretch at the end of weeding the row to see every corn plant free of clutter, ready to grow, her tending obvious.

Not investment like plodding a screaming knee for another two miles — investment like silence, surrendering sleep into a softness of cheek and eye, like water for a dying cactus and the fuchsia firecracker blooms next spring. Investment like I will let go long enough to transform impossible to possible. Splash fact to embrace wonder.

Nothing is coming to me outside of this. Living of this loving—I have already embarked and I can see the shore approaching. Witness.