I am the hum of a television, almost unnoticeable, forgotten.
I am a 1994 maroon-colored Chevy Silverado, parked in a country driveway in Bicknell, Indiana.
I am the number 39, almost 40, but not quite.
I am a gopher, making my own way under the surface of the conspicuous.
I am the smack of gum on a tongue, savoring, relishing, concentrating.
I am the swirl of a tomoe, organized in my own eclectic fashion, wondering what is yet to come and what has already been.
I am a red maple beside a pond, accenting its presence without retracting a ripple or a wave.
I am a harp, healing the wound of a broken soul with a careful stroke, whirling sounds to shape and scour.
I am who I am, and nothing but.