This is only a sketch; a tiny scratch on the surface of something. A summer moth heard landing on a summer porch in darkness. A moment too brief to dream in sleep, to question and find meaning in the larger moment. Everything before this landing was timeless, unmarked by marching seconds; untouched by tendril rays of the sun. Now, we lie marked and touched by time – wounded from counting the nights and days. Planning for tomorrow and trying to fix yesterday. She’s drifting and has more to say but the words escape her. It’s just a sketch; a tiny scratch.