I'm going to be one of those old men who can't remember anything. I just know it. I already have some trouble. It's bound to get worse. It's that some moments just don't find their foothold, they never tether to another - so they drift out, away from me. The first hummingbird of summer (and mom in grassy shorts, watching expectantly) is still here, slower than I've ever seen it, and each feather, each bounce of light and shadow, each small gesture large enough to see, they're still here.
(album out in September, on my birthday; thanks, Lindsey)