In the golden night, thoughts swirl as the falling leaves, finding me restless in my confinement.

This is not the way I expected this to feel. I thought it would be calm. I thought I would be calm. The mirth saps from my veins as I rest here waiting to breathe again.

How do you sort the molecules bursting from the hydrant? How do you call this rest?

A leaf lands in my hands. I inhale.

I call this luck, manifest it into hope.

I stand, hips and knees popping back into place, to carry me to the next.

I am running, slow as I can manage, toward the invisible finish line. Some days it is a sprint.

In the golden night, I sit for a moment. I let the hydrant overwhelm me. I rally my reserves and manufacture a reason to continue. Then I do. I persist. What else is there?