Why We Fuck Up

A meditation center

We played outside a meditation center. A late sun lit the low lines of the spare yard; a pale canvas cut by brushstroke shadows, thin branches made full. A squat stone fountain gurgled in the center of a rock garden. A hummingbird lingered in mid-air and sipped the falling water. We stole photos from the small moments. We pointed at the air. We laughed at water.

A man appeared in the window behind us and scowled. “Hush, hush,” his hands demanded. We were interrupting his meditation.