Glinting in the sunlight, they swim in phantom currents and ride ghost waves. Swallowed by the empty air; cephalopods,  stars or amoebas or snowflakes, they are noiseless. little globes. handfuls of sand caught in a whirlpool. Their ambience and ambivalence to me reminds me how the things of the world continue...orbiting, riding the swell of some breath or wind, colliding, gently moving apart; undulating with the flux and stir of gravities and anti-gravities. If my doings were spread wide enough to float, would I appear so graceful and irreverent? It makes me wonder about lines of reason.  Is reasonable intent a straight trajectory?  Is straightness a myth?

When i am resting wide and open, intending nothing, maybe then, I am like a dust mote.