How is your day?

The window glass was cold against my forehead. Outside, a small bird landed on the cherry branch and stayed for the length of one breath before it lifted again. I want to remember the exact weight of that pause — the sense that the day had not yet decided what it would be.

Today I will try to listen more than I speak. I will let one thing surprise me without trying to name it.

A long meeting that turned into a conversation about gardens. Someone described pruning a fig tree in winter — how you have to imagine the shape of next summer's light. I wrote that down on the back of a receipt and folded it into my pocket.

Tea was lukewarm. The honey at the bottom of the cup tasted like something I forgot to feel earlier.

Three small things, gently:

• The first warm bath of the week, with the bathroom light off and the hallway light on, slanting in like a soft envelope.
• A friend's text that simply said, "thinking of you on this rainy Tuesday." No question mark. No request.
• The way the streetlight caught on the puddle outside the bakery and made the whole sidewalk look like it was floating.