You and I communicate in ideas, not words.
Snippets dangle in the air
waiting to be grasped.
Old ones spin away in a worm-shaped vortex.

Our sessions leave us tired and alive,
like old fence posts driven deeply into the ground.
Then we're exposed, raw and splintery.
The first blades of grass growing after a fire.

The evening slips by,
sleep moves closer like a rainstorm
meandering across the hills
a few hundred miles west.