I watch the fog move in and out, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes wisps, and other times a clasped presence.  Sometimes I see it moving but it doesn’t advance. It dissipates, unseen.

As I watch the fog, I read from The Hidden Lamp, learn that in Chinese lore it is said that the chicken listens with her heart to hatch her eggs.  

I read of the El Paso shootings.  

I listen with my heart.

The evening fog returns

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