There is the sound of a brass band practicing floating on the autumn afternoon air. The air is perfect. I think about how magical and strange it is to hear live music these days and then my mind wanders to wondering about blowing into brass instruments and Covid protocol. My mind toggles between perfect blankness and wandering. Last night I swam naked in the ocean in a devotional goodbye to summer. And then I fixed my eyes on the moon. Its the third change of season since the pandemic began. While I am locked in focus on the moon, D is tripping on some satellite. She is confused about how its motion seems erratic. “Its a drunk satellite” I say absently. Each change of season has held in its arms a challenge, a pattern I notice clustering around the equinoxes and solstice, and so I aim to hold steady through the turbulence. Hold on to: *
