Paradise, Mt. Rainier

Morning cracked open with the smell of coffee and a child’s half-awake questions.

The drive west was a shuffle of brake lights and podcasts that kept slipping off into static.

At work, the air was fluorescent and committee-tinted, my voice measured against the clock.

Every plan felt like it wanted more room than the table would allow.

By afternoon the day had grown teeth.

Emails circled like pigeons that knew the crumbs were mine.

Someone asked me to explain a thing I had already explained.

I smiled because sometimes that is the cheapest way out.

Evening folded itself back into the neighborhood.

Kids with chalk on their palms, dinner leaning toward leftovers,

and me stealing ten minutes to stare at the hornbeam in the yard,

trying to decide if the tree stays or goes.

The day ends like a coin balanced on its edge.

Not heads, not tails, just waiting for the first nudge.

I almost envy the coin. It doesn’t have to write emails in the morning.