Sleepy Weather

I sit outside watching my son at play in the dirt in the light of the afternoon sun. He runs a hand over the ground like he's smoothing a blanket, and with the same disregard for the transference of disease. I'm struck by a vague sense of his limited powers of differentiation, and of the growth of what powers he does possess out of that nebulous pool of sensual stimuli beginning, let's say, in the womb. And as I continue to watch, he inserts a fingertip into a nostril and digs out a viscous coagulum, looks around coyly, and stabs it into the earth. "Take that, wench." The words bubble up out of nowhere inside my head. My eyelids feel heavy. I start to nod. I decide to surrender to the god of siesta.