Spark by Mikko Harvey
A leaf declining to fall. A man hunting to kill but not to eat. On the patio last night, a telephone told stories about democracy, but I was watching your hands move. Picking up patterns. Slowly starting to see that my life was nothing more than a perch from which to be kind, like the foliage that successfully hides a turkey from a hunter. The evening's blackness frothed in the grass. The evening's mantises danced. Or at least swayed. Or at least existed. And when I thought that a small amount of liquid was about to spill over the edge of your cup, a small amount did! Simplicity: a doorknob. The freckle on your forearm.