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I'm thinking today about puddles and the capacity to be moved—the capacity to be puddled—in the muddying sense—might also be the capacity to be out of sense, out of step with the pace of things, something not quite right—a puddle-break with the sense-making—puddle the morning by reading the invitations we keep sending to each other—puddle the sky with the sky—puddle the capacity with its own reflection, streetlights and passing cars, wavering droplets and set of bicycle wheels—puddle the movement we call puddling—puddle writing without waiting, without promise—without saying we know what we’re are talking about—puddle in what we know—that we're asking for more puddles