Not to move a centimetre away from this, not to redeem the moment but leave it as it is, the small change of life, a context without any content, only the unseen and unseeing invariants. If this were art it would be unforgivable. There is no music in it, no glory, unwitting it picks up the shards that fail to lock and drops them again. The heat's arrhythmias stroke the boughs with silent fingers, gentle as dust.