8am. Saturday.

The ability to go and keep going, to choose a turning and choose more / farther before choosing home. Smokers on the porch along the road no one travels. Grey and black swirl of the long dead stump, the secret entrance of it. Blessing the sleepers and their descendants, that breath of quiet. The black metal fence, the uprightness. What the traffic leaves of the squirrel body. Passing the big man in the red t-shirt just as he crests the hill. Red so red against the dark glow of his skin. Feeling kindly. His kindness.