People at my house are sleeping late still, just a few days before the school year begins. With so many mental chores to sort out, I decide to walk toward the old neighborhood, before the sun is preheated to the temperature it will be baking the earth later.
I must look silly to these people, a fat old man moving slowly with a stick in one hand and an iPad in the other, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that sometimes rides up. I'm trying not to care as I make my way down the road listening: at first to birds above me near the house, them then trucks rushing past me as if they have some place to go, and later to the crunch of gravel beneath my feet.
Melodies played by Marion McPartland, whom I had been listening to as I worked, waft in my mind. Prayers I don't know if I am saying or thinking mix in. I admire the brightness of sunflowers, and ponder my fears.
until the dry wind reveals
blades of grass clacking