The walk

It is very quiet as I set out on the familiar way; only the rough scruffing of my sandals against the sidewalk, the distant roar of traffic, and the whispering of the wind in the trees can be heard. The air is cool and full of scents: pine needles, wood smoke, fresh basil, and the sweet smell of nearing rain while overhead the grey clouds come rolling in.

I mark the way by the flowers I pass. The first of any note are the lavender bushes outside an orthodontist’s office. A few bumblebees make their way from flower to flower. Next are the small orange poppy-like flowers which grow around a telephone pole. Now they are closed for the evening but I greet them all the same. A few weeks ago the next landmark would have been the opulent purple petunias hanging outside a business but they have been taken down and so there is nothing more until the very end of the route: two beds of flowers outside a bank. Quite honestly, I don’t know what a single one of the flowers here is, but I have come to know them quite well this summer and I am happy to see them again.

As I walk, I let the wind blow my skirt and my hair about. I love wind. If I wore tighter skirts and had short hair I would forever feel that I was missing something glorious. I feel a bit as though I was the subject of a Waterhouse painting, “Windflowers” or “The Tempest.” The glory of the rush of the air makes me think of all sorts of bits of poems and they weave themselves together in my brain.

Here is the destination. I go in, return the library books I was bringing back, and check out a few more. Then there is the walk home, during which I think of nothing in particular and notice even less.