the sun came out for a minute and i when i gave mister his apple he smiled, his eyes sparkled and he rolled, massaging his shoulders, his legs pumping the air. when we got to the sea wall the water was a lovely aquamarine hue and the sun was penetrating the clouds and angling down like creation. i got ready to doff my hat and dark glasses and picture mister and me with the sea behind us, and realized i left my battery in the charger, and then i got annoyed briefly but laughed and questioned why i have to record everything almost before i experience anything. it comes from childhood i suppose, when i lived through books, even when i went out in the small parcels of leftover land, alone or with a family animal, or looking for secret animals, to put in my secret pages, my curious isolation, my walking silent book.
and then the sky closed up again.

the thought i have is i may be a book of all the lost trees and buried land and animals i have seen. i may be a book forever emptying.