Sickness, illness, old age — this is not to praise a life once lived, but to sit and gather what I have left. Sitting, sitting, sitting, my thoughts roam about the grounds from which my eyes collect. Yet a tear forms and rolls down this flesh of mine. The burble and gurgle of the fountain seeks an interlocutor of which to commune. My ears and eyes defer to its invitation. Its upper reach arcs skyward before loosing its strength and falling back down into a lower bowl where its waters collect again before they overflow its limits and fall as a multifarious collection of individual and sparkling droplets into the wide expanse of the pool below. Though I can't see, I know here they will form again collectively, before starting the process over. Oh my God! I hear the birds again. So many. They fill my ears and my heart too. One day perhaps I can fly with them, as one of them too.
The Wild Grace Chronicles will return when they are ready.
For now, there is a fountain, a garden, and birds enough to fill the heart.
That is enough.