Morning routine

Before the dog walk, I write out on the back deck. It’s damp from last night’s rain. When the leaves flutter, moisture drips down like a second rainfall. They seem to have more to say than I do, those drops.

Tiger-saw judders at a neighbor’s back facade where a new porch is in progress. A female vocalist’s plaintive song drifts across the yards. Fifteen degrees to the north, kids erupt out of the school building, dashing to basketball court, hollering. Thud, thud, thud go the balls. Now a man sings — Sam Cooke, I think.

Darling, you-oo send me …

On our walk, Finn and I pass a vibrant arc of purple and magenta petunias before coming upon a dusty crew of masons. They’ve made progress since yesterday. They look hot. Two admire the new front stoop, a third wacks a mallet at the soon-to-be deconstructed side stoop.

In less than a block, a hawk drifts a lazy loop above the rooftops, wings outspread.

A young woman passes us down near the tracks. It takes me a minute to figure out her footwear: black ankle socks in white Croc slides. Her hair shines down her back and I can almost hear her right hip click.

The stretch of sidewalk where I noticed with surprise yesterday that I was feeling no pain, did not offer the same observation today.

Up the hill at the Greek revival place on Cypress, two turkeys walk in circles. They look nonchalant, but I know better. Two females.

Back at the house, I peel off my socks with relief. I’m sweaty. A nearby fan offers cool air and a soothing whir. And now a stone saw. A neighbor is redoing his driveway with pavers.

I did not take any pictures on our walk this morning. But I’ll be back later with more collages. More, you say? Yes.