Morning light spills across the kitchen table, too bright for secrets. I pour coffee and begin again: the right way to fold a fitted sheet, why bitterness lingers longer than sweetness in the mouth, how regret is just pattern recognition arriving late. My listener nods, eyes polite, already drifting toward the window where a single sparrow balances on the feeder, seed husks falling like discarded lessons.
I press on. There are rules, after all. Principles. Maps drawn by people who walked the path before us and kindly left signposts. I point. I underline. I arrange the evidence in neat rows. The listener sips and smiles the small, patient smile one reserves for wind that insists on rearranging hair.
Outside, the sparrow flits off, carrying no footnotes.
old teacher’s voice
still lecturing the bare branch —
snow listens, then falls