He’s right,
it is windy,
but there are no tornadoes.
So when he comes down the stairs with his flashlight
both scared and trying to save me
we consider the dark clouds and determine them benign.
I think about how much taller he is now
than this morning
and so he sleeps next to me;
Miller Moths and their soft thuds building in the swirl of the fan above.
He surprises me with his sticky, limp hand–
the upward palm and curled fingertips which against my better judgement
he neglected to wash just a few hours or a lifetime ago.
And who am I kidding?
The prince of campouts and sprinklers and three or four muddied outfits per day
breathes so perfectly.

There is no better judgement.