These days. I am watching dappled sunlight like I have just been born. Like there are filters in this world, soft, shifting patterns I can see but not catch. As if life has tender places. An artist’s impression of tree leaves, the way life looks through the slates of blinds, the intricate patterns left behind by eclipses and lace curtains and baby’s breath. Life doled out in pieces of light and shadow, sparced out in specs and splashes, chapters I might just understand. Always gently moving like a whisper of a forgotten memory, and underneath it all the sense there is some deep message. Something that I should know, should maybe pass along. I tilt my head, pull up a seat, and listen.