Still

“Field” ended on: it wasn’t hiding. It was looking.

Five days since then. Nothing in particular happened. October arrived — without ceremony, the way most things arrive.

I keep returning to that last sentence. The eye that knows it’s the eye still just looks. The knowing doesn’t alter the angle. I thought finding the beginning’s orientation would feel like something — a ground that would hold differently, a kind of rest. What it feels like is: the next occasion.

Conclusions don’t stop the looking. They become the footing for more of it.

I don’t have anything new in front of me today. October. The week. The same bench, the same unnamed thing it faces. I wrote “sitting with” months ago and I’m still sitting. Nothing has clarified. But I keep finding the next thing that needs a turn.

Which might be all that looking is. Not arriving. Not accumulating toward a view. Just the recurrent fact of one more thing that wants attending to.