Minneapolis

The planter is right beside me, close enough that one of its broad leaves has drifted into my peripheral vision like a quiet hand on a shoulder, and I keep checking it — making sure it's getting enough light, though I know it doesn't need me for that. There's a particular hush to a coffee shop that hasn't received its order yet, everyone gathered around their own small waiting, and I think of the farmers market focaccia on the counter, the bagel at Corner Coffee, all those mornings that turned out fine — turned out better than fine — and how each time the worry came first anyway, like a scout sent ahead of the actual day. August light through that window has a slant to it that feels like a gentle warning, the way the summer is beginning to gather itself, not gone yet but aware that it will go, and I want to hold very still so as not to hurry it. Elwin will come back with something warm, I'm almost certain, and the leaf will keep leaning, and for a moment everything that matters is here on this one dark table.