In train

Yesterday a curious faced tiny creature came and stared at me, angling his head at me, showing me a wound on his eyebrow, looking at my laptop, quiet, like a bird at the window moving its head around and peering with one bright eye. Then kicked me, halfheartedly and without any seeming malice, on my ankle. Twice.

Last week a small urchin angel climbed the seat behind me and stared her curly haired head at me, smiling, wide eyed. Then from behind me started playing with my necklace and my earring. As I wasn’t there.

Today a monk and I walked in step on the way to the train and I said good morning, and we talked about the weather, but meaningfully, and with loving kindness. He said are you going to work? And I said yes, in the city. And he laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and I said, beseechingly, crushed, don’t laugh, and he said well you’ll be inside, in reference to our conversation about the possible rain, and I marvel that this sense of humour is somehow of another place, like the music of bells ringing or the joke of leaves falling, or the cushion provided by a piece of wood, and we part ways at the entrance to the waiting room.