In the afternoon, with the sun low, the railing's shadow stretches long across the wooden deck. A pale checked shirt creases, and the light warms the tendons of the forearm and the back of the hand. Beyond the railing a summer meadow blurs out, and the eyes are half closed.
One hand rests on the chest, the other on the belly. On the inhale the lower hand is pushed out a little, and on the exhale the shoulders slide down. The soles of the feet take in the grain of the deck boards as it is, and the gaze catches on nothing.
It is the hour when a day's worth of hurry is still sitting in the chest. That leftover charge does not go away by being pushed away, and it grows shallow on its own while the palms are watched rising and falling a few times.
Sitting there, it is worth breathing in on a count of four and letting the breath out slowly on a count of six. Over about three rounds, what if you followed only how the hand on the belly moves?
The same count also enters an evening spent folding laundry. With one towel folded in half and laid on the knees, while counting four and six, it is worth noting how much force goes into the fingers pressing the cloth. The tip of the thumb may harden while you try to line up the fold, and that force may quietly loosen as the breath goes out. Regardless of how fast the pile of clothes beside you shrinks, it would be good just to check the force in your fingertips a few times.
The sunlight will soon drop below the railing, and the deck will hold the day's warmth a while longer.
