A gamut of 20-somethings gather outside that familiar gathering place.
They small talk and group naturally, not exclusively.
The band within practices an accustomed acoustic worship set.
Doors open. People fill a room.
From a microphone in the front,
“Use the paper and pencils to make a story in a group.”
Those around me form and we discuss.
The conversation quickly heads to what we’ve been up to.
Few find interest in the story.
Now a duo’d conversation, he tells of emergents elsewhere.
Others leave to the worship room.
If the sun is out, Sally will play.
When the bee who’s come to stay…
The story gets erased, but not the pictures.
A couple of coupling others flower the walls, or else it’s just me.
I sit in an empty room.
When Sally comes to play
The bee likes to fly…
The sun brightens from the center of the page.
The bee flutters around with dashes of past trajectory.
The hill provides space.
The colors childish. The story simple. Mine.
Music warms the background noise.
Just me and a picture.
Peace.

Seems comfortable enough. The people are nice, inviting.
What’s going on here? I’ve done this before, it’s just different people in a different place.
This guy understands, he’s got his stuff going on.
Let’s make a story.
What kind of story is this? How did I come up with this?
This isn’t that good.
Wait, where’d it go?
I like telling this story.
No one else wants to stay to tell a story?
The sun smiles at me.
Am I the bee?
Am I Sally?
Am I both?
Does it really matter?
Should I be over there with all the other people, singing?
Here in the floor is a good place to be.