He is cleaning the storm drains, a season late. Months lapsed. He is sweating in the surprising sun. It is only March, but warm. Occasionally, she pokes her head out, asks him if he would like tea, watching his cautious limbs and not certain what to feel. Trying to fall into the old rhythm, but straining. She goes inside and he is alone with the incalescent world. He reaches and the ladder lurches uncertainly. A quick calculation: most likely, he would survive the fall. He is satisfied with the process, not as much the knowledge. His heart does not ascend, safe within the familiar comfort of deductions. He loses track of himself, and it resembles forgiveness.

Inside, she mixes tea,
listening to ice churning against glass,
how even after she stops stirring,
the liquid swirls for a time.
Residual motion.