It is cool out, today; cool and cloudy and windy. The weatherman says a 30% chance of rain. From the look of the sky, overcast in rolling greys, it is coming. It will come. There is a conjugation of rain in the air, and I am swept into it, bangs practising sticking to my face (will they ever be long enough to behave?) and dancing on the breeze. My vision, through featherweight lenses still not at home on my nose, its snub seeming ready to catch them, seems to swim and tunnel, perspective folding and curling at thee edges of sight. One dandelion, two, a hundred, a thousand. A bird calling to the baseball team and the man mining sand, as bad country music ebbs and swells with the currents of air. Keee, kikikiki; keee, kiki, ki. Punctuation or exclamation, warning and summons and o, the wind makes thought fly.
There are no sidewalks, just the cushion of grass between the unforgiving road and the chainlink fence overgrown with vines, a carpeting of green and yellow. One dandelion, two, a hundred. Stone markers with cryptic inscriptions, trash tattered and cleansed by the wind, trees and trees that bloom in white. The flowers are sweet and transfiguring; I bury my face in the evergreens to remind me of the sting and slide of winter, guard against springtime's draught. I am overcome by the wind, I fly and fly, heedless of bags and broken arms, to land finally (there are violets to mark the place, a symphony of hidden richness) in the touch of the civilised world, feet marking pavement for the quarter-mile that funnels me home.
There are no sidewalks, only beauty and refreshment. I think I can carry on.