Musings I

Click, click goes the showman’s stick, as he tracks across the sand. It patters about him as he taps again and again with his walking cane, watching the grasses flow out to the sea.

My hands pass, not yours. Yours are clasped across the table, like the others, one finger tapping. My hands pass each other softly, swiftly; deftly, passing the cards about the deck. Shuffling.