My practice was to wake each morning, turn on some faucets. My practice sometimes involved a wheel. The plot of my practice had something to do with yanking, with flour and a bowl, with wrangling a hose from its comfortable tangle. There would be the pose called Filling the Feeders, also the one involving bouncing. My practice was to think before speaking, though sometimes those springs gave out. I was honing my oms, increasing my reps. My practice, like the seedlings, not uniform, falling into their own unwieldy formation.