Just this morning,
I tossed the dish towel
into the laundry.
The one we use to wipe our hands,
hung on the oven door,
easy to grab
and, apparently,
easy to forget about.
All morning long,
I have reached for that towel.
At least a half dozen times.
And each time,
my hand finds only air.
Habit is like that.
Without invitation,
a thought appears.
A judgment.
An old response.
The hand reaches.
The mind reaches.
Later,
walking the ocean trail
I walk most mornings,
I catch sight of what appears
to be a spinning silver disc
hovering above the water.
At long last,
I think,
the galactics have landed.
Not quite.
A dolphin surfaces,
smooth grey-white head
rising and disappearing,
rising and disappearing.
Others follow.
A pod.
So close in.
They arc through rough water
and high winds
as though it were nothing.
Because to them,
it is.
And I wonder
how much of life
is spent reaching
for what is no longer there,
while all the while
something unexpected
surfaces beside us,
asking only
that we pay attention.
