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.