A big basketful of shiny plans for fun that I made yesterday turned dull and brittle in today’s hesitations. There were also those hours lost to chores that grew eve more nebulous, even as the day got brighter after the fog drifted away. A Saturday that felt like Sunday: a day caught in the vise of the fun that was had and the drudgery that is to come.
Still, I managed to get away and go for a walk just as the winds were kicking up as if they meant business, having practiced diligently for the better part of the day already. Parched leaves, carried in eddies of wind, scurried along the pavement like frightened rodents fleeing the looming shadow of a predator. Their numbers grew, as with every gust ripping through more leaves were loosened from the branches of maples along the way.
Traffic was light, as if it really were a Sunday afternoon. Aside from the crows going through their limited repertoire of sounds with a new vigor in the waning sun, I could make out no other bird. So much silence cushioned in the wind and the crows’ crackle and the odd car whizzing past me along the way. And then on the ridge, out of nowhere, the fluttering wings of a morning dove that landed on the side of the road, as if sent to intercept me. For an instant, we stared at each other, both of us bewildered, just as the winds picked up again.