I like to whistle when
I walk, because I cannot
sing. And I would like
to sing.
I am sitting now, listening
to the little rainfall and
the far-off thunder. My blinds
are down. I cannot see the lightning.
I had a dream last night, and
it was good. So good that the
waking hurt, and hurts.
I hope to dream again.
It is too cold for summer,
here, but I don't mind.
I have been too much
in the sun.
