Birds eat grass

I'm expectant and bubbling--effervescent and impatient.

The semester is over. I've graded the students; I've graded the course & myself.

Work continues such as it is. Folks & products are heated & cooled. Oil lubricates and is washed away.

But I. I sit on the edge of a precipice.

It might not be a precipice (do my legs stretch before me in the dirt?)--I might be poised above four blades of browning grass.

Or. Or I might be clawing for air: a fledgling.