I love the way we sort of free fall down the stairs in the mornings for our walk. But especially on holiday mornings.
I think about someone my age awake to watch their children experience the plastic sensations of their Easter basket while they sip a coffee.
But for me, it’s different— and this isn’t to say one version is better or worse.
I love the stillness the normally busy street we occupy identifies with on these days. I hear the hum of cars from a busier road adjacent to us, and I’m happy.
I notice a wall of jasmine, always flowering & so fragrant in April the way its petals litter a pond, almost covering it whole, as we play hopscotch with a fantastic constellation of duck shit across the asphalt.
I feel my never-fading joy of seeing the moon in a morning sky. A bird flying overhead along with my favorite part of a song I have on repeat. And the fucked-up thrill I feel when I see another dog’s shit in this parking lot, because I know the man who yelled at me and Gigi will have to pick it up.
I watch oversized crows peck at one another for food at the dumpster behind Crafty Crab. And an older woman with white hair and a winter coat when it’s 70 degrees puffs shyly at a cigarette as she waves at me and Gigi and we wave back.
And I know I mentioned shit twice in this poem, but the thing is, that’s a little bit like life, isn’t it? Beautiful and full of it.
Thoughts?