February the Eleventh. Opus and the Daily Practice. Morph.

In the courtyard where the weed had grown wild, the rain was drumming on stone. Paulo had waited for Mother Superior to leave her office overlooking the gates for lunch and midday prayer. Now we all pressed our faces to the glass. We waited to see if he would make the train, the way he had outlined in the cafeteria when he went stockpiling our cartons of milk and sandwiches. Like a shot, Paolo broke out across the grounds at the gate. He slipped in the trucking road and all of those cartons spilled out from the bag. But Paolo did not stop to look back. I watched Paolo run so long that Paolo did not look like Paolo anymore–just another shape in the field beyond the trucking road that bristled and sparkled while the wind blew through it. FDM