third infusion

the third pour from the same leaves. the colour is honest about itself now, paler than the second, more straw than tea. the body is gone. what is left is a thin clarity, a kind of memory of the first cup, slightly sweet on the back of the tongue.

not a worse tea; a different one. taken in the long late afternoon, after the four-o'clock hour, when one has the time and the leaves still in the pot. the ritual here is not throwing away. the custodian will pour a fourth, and a fifth, and stop when the cup is the colour of warm water and the window has gone grey.

the leaves keep their last word for the third pour, often. it is worth being there for it. for the same logic applied to the morning, see not coffee.