The Shallows

Here we are. The baby needs changing. It’s early in a midweek, late summer day. The cool skepticism that blankets us all before the dew drops,  before the dawn god rises reluctant from her bed, is a memory now,  a feeling faded into thought.   Strange hours those, empty of opinion. Strange feeling—so total then, now like pure accident.   Misty unknowingness, why should we ever believe you? Any true feeling couldn’t be discarded           simply because the turning earth has met the morning’s apple-green light.   We never even intend to be rid of you,  being free, in those hours,  of intention . . .   but here we are:  conscious, modern, self-conquering,  and the baby is clean, and the sun streaming in.

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