Two days ago snow blanketed the same pavement where this morning a kid ran slowly in flip-flops, their footfall a strange meditative cadence specific to their height and type of shoe.
On the fence a mockingbird twitched as if distrustful of the emerging warmth.
The sky hasn’t decided, or it keeps its decision to itself. We walk together or alone for our own reasons, not revealed, other than a mutual acceptance of the dog needing to get out, and each of us wanting without irony or metaphor to simply stretch our legs.
What is sky? Our subjective experience of looking up, gazing. skyward, registering amorphous color and shape.
At night, the constancy and predictable fluidity of our moon and stars. Constellations, airplanes, satellites. The surprise of a comet or an asteroid; the exoticism of a UFO,
Our small dog checks his enthusiasm with each new step. The known world tricks us but it’s part of the contract.
In our front yard the two cats stalk and pounce around the fallen limbs and the maybe-dead plants. Some will recover, bounce back, we can even say they may or will spring to life —
The cats pause their play. They regard us with alarm, with indignation. It’s funny how they’re perfectly equipped to utterly ignore us, when that’s the whim.
Maybe we are alarming with our thick thoughts and silly limitations, the small steadfast dog on his leash, with legs like stout rapid chopsticks, our hearts which we forget to thank for beating.
my macho bullshit 