A Bowl Of Warm Air

Someone is falling towards you as an apple falls from a branch, moving slowly, imperceptibly, as if into a new political epoch, or excitedly like a dog towards a bone. he is holding in both hands everything he knows he has- a bowl of warm air.

He has sighted you from afar as if you were a dramatic crooked tree on the horizon and he has seen you close up like the underside of a mushroom. but he cannot open you like a newspaper or put you down like a newspaper.

And you are satisfied that he is veering towards you and that he is adjusting his speed and that the sun and the wind and rain are in front of him and the sun and the wind and rain are behind him.