quitting pickleball last year, I knew I needed exercise and took up walking and realized I needed to push with purpose, as if a nipping dog was on my heals it’s now become just my head floating above the churn of legs and the pendulums of arms an odd disconnect of will and want, freeing me for discussions with myself, mumbling about things I see - ravens curiously circling above a rabbit fleeing across the path other walkers passing, paired and in groups of deep discu

two is a dance three is a juggle not in the arc of a ball but in the microscopic space between switching hands, when in the briefest possibility one leash could go airborne and for one rascally dog, to upset the catch with a well- timed tug would be freedom and just like a rubber ball, would recoil and rebound away with me running in pursuit, slower and funnier than I ever have

on my snail-slow walk with Gracie around 7am. each morning we pass a silhouette on the sidewalk flowers of a small weed have cast a tiny medieval cathedral with spires and pinnacles taking advantage of a well-angled sun, a shadow can be more impressive than its maker that is, until a cloud passes canceling the entertainment and sending it back home with a reminder from the weed itself that having any kind of fun was never part of the job description