Sit. Stay.

I am on Tuesday.  All day, it will be Tuesday.  From the time I got up, until the time I go to sleep tonight, it will all be nothing more than Tuesday.  A plain, simple Tuesday.  Just one day, a single day, the whole lifetime of this one Tuesday lived between sun up and sun down.

In spite of that, as I sit here waiting, I keep leaning myself over the rail into Wednesday as if I could be in both days at once. And no matter how far I lean trying to find Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I keep seeing Tuesday and only Tuesday. Wednesday simply isn't here yet. So I keep sitting.  And staying. And tapping...

But as I sit here on the back deck and look at Tuesday's back yard which happens to be --of all things--in my own backyard, I can't imagine why I keep trying to hop into Wednesday.  After all, I know nothing about Wednesday.  But about Tuesday, this particular Tuesday, I know quite a bit.

The sky is a deep, deep blue.  Parts of it are.  Other parts have clouds here and there--the clean, white, puffy kind.  The wind is blowing through the trees.  Some of the trees.  Some are standing very still and silent while others are blowing with some seriousness about them.  The sparrows are busy.  Well, some are and some are not.  Some are in and out and in and out and in and out of their nest in the house on the post by the fence near the shed under the oaks carrying snacks and stems and bugs and parcels and ritual to their babies. And some are just sitting on the rail, silent, peeking at a secret.  Some dogs need walking today and some do not.  Buddy needs his walk.  Boo does not.

And like the randomness of Tuesday's ongoings, parts of me are unsettled and parts are not.  The unsettled parts can sit and stay here--they belong to this day. And as for the settled parts of me, they can sit and stay, too.  It's this one and only Tuesday, settled and unsettled, clear and unclear. It will be here for only a few more hours.  I don't miss it.

Wednesday is only my imagination.